The Prince Who Was Promised
by cxjenious
Summary: He remembered being Harry Potter. Dreamed of it. He dreams of the Great Other too, a creature of ice and death, with eyes red as blood and an army of cold, dead things. He is only the 2nd son of the King, a 'spare', but that changes when things rather left in the dark come to light, and Westeros is torn asunder by treachery and ambition. Winter is coming... but magic is might.
1. The Price of Fun

**AN: **This story starts in the year 293 AL. A Game of Thrones begins in 298 AL. King Robert was crowned in 281 AL.

**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones.**

* * *

He ducked behind a tree, his breath quiet, an arrow notched and ready to release. He waited a three count, then peered around the the trunk to look upon his prey.

The stag had not moved, though it appeared wary, its haunches twitching and nostrils flaring. It had been startled by the sudden sound of a twig snapping beneath his foot, but it did not flee, watching the surrounding thicket with wide, shining black eyes. _'Though if I should misstep again...'_ The stag lifted its mighty head to the sky, breathing in the scents of the forest.

If he had been a better archer, he could have taken the shot from a further distance, but he was only eight - soon to be nine - and his aim was barely a touch above mediocre. He had only just begun practicing.

He was much better at sneaking - you had to be in the keep, lest you get caught doing something you weren't supposed to. He had let his excitement get the best of him and had not been paying proper attention to his surroundings. Ser Aron always reprimanded him for such inattentiveness during weapons practice, as it could 'spell death for even the skilled', but Harry was only hunting deer, not fighting for his life. At worst he'd waste a few arrows and a few more hours.

_'Now or never...'_

He moved with purpose, as he'd been taught, drawing the string as he spun from around the trunk. The stag lowered its head and seemed about to charge, but he loosed an arrow into its face just as it took its first step. The broadhead cut deep, but the wound was not fatal. The beast averted its path in mid-step, dashing off into dense wood across the meadow. _'Deep breath, aim, and...'_ He let another arrow fly before the stag could pick up speed, giving chase when it failed to go down.

It didn't run far. The second arrow seemed to have caught a lung, or nicked one at least, and the stag, so proud and strong, could barely stand, let alone bound away. Blood leaked from it's flank, leaving a crimson trail through the undergrowth. He watched it collapse to the ground with a pitiful grunt, saw it kick and writhe, trying and failing to fight off death. He counted the seconds as he drew nearer; by the time he reached thirteen, the stag was dead.

His brother, Joffrey, had tried and failed to bring down a stag only the week before, and had earned even more scorn from their father. Harry hoped to earn his praise instead, even though he wasn't, under **any** circumstances, to venture into the Kingswood alone. Not without a guard, and especially not when at the expense of his lessons. Maester Pycelle, the old toad, would be _terribly _disappointed. If his mother had any say, he would be locked up in the Red Keep all day, like little Myrcella, playing at court with the other sons and daughters of the lords who visited his father's keep, or worse, with Joffrey, and his cruel games.

No, better to hunt in the Kingswood, even if it meant a punishment. And since he _had_ managed to bring down a stag, all the better.

It was truly magnificent, the stag, much larger up close than he had first realized. _'Three hundred pounds, at the least.' _That was far too heavy for him lift, let alone carry back to King's Landing, and he'd ditched his guards and servants before he had snuck out the city. _'But I can manage this, I think.'_

He stared intently at the carcass, willing it to move. Magic was called a sword without a hilt, and it most often was, but Harry didn't need a hilt to move the stag; he didn't need a _wand -_ only very strong intent. He was a wizard after all, in his past life and in this one, and he'd learned enough to manage a wandless charm or three.

The corpse rose up to his eye level, and when he went to walk back to the copse of trees where he'd left his horse, Flatfoot, it trailed along dutifully behind him, hanging from invisible strings.

He'd have to create a makeshift sled for the deer carcass, or tie it across the back of his courser - he didn't think he could ride and maintain the spell, not without being noticed, and not without a wand; he had yet to find the right ingredients to craft a lasting one. The trees in the godswood were decent enough, but he couldn't find a material to serve as a stable core. His blood wouldn't do - it made for too volatile a conduit.

He thought on his problem as he walked back, wondering when the men from the menagerie in Pentos would return to Westeros. Last year they'd had a unicorn, and a basilisk - nothing like the one from his dreams - but he hadn't been allowed to see them, only hearing of the show from Ser Jaime. Hopefully, if they came again, he could go and speak to the men who handled the animals, and maybe solve his dilemma. One of them, in any case.

It was all very strange, he mused. He had almost two hundred years of memories swimming around in his head, memories of a strange place, where people used owls as messengers instead of ravens, fought with magic instead of swords and drank beer of butter instead of wine of grapes. He'd thought them just dreams, very realistic dreams, but his gut had said otherwise.

He'd known for sure when he'd done magic for the first time, and he hadn't looked back since. Oddly enough, despite all the years he could remember, and all the things he dreamed of, he still felt like a child. He was smarter than his peers, more mature, less inclined to tantrums... but he still enjoyed a good game of tag, he loved to play and train at swords, and he hated sitting still for any length of time. He didn't feel like an old man, but his memories and his dreams detailed a long, long life. It was strange, to say the least; something undefinable by words, only explicable to those who had experienced it.

And as far as he knew, only he had experienced it.

Flatfoot, his big, gray courser, was still tied where he left him, his shining black mane a match for Harry's own, in color if not length. As theft was rewarded with mutilation, he wasn't surprised his horse hadn't been bothered. Besides that, he was well-liked by the smallfolk of the Kingswood, the only people who frequented the forest - he doubted they would bother his things.

They called him "Harry the Kind", and he tried, for them at least, to live up to the moniker. It was easy enough to do - they were simple people, with simple needs, far removed from the gilded tongues of the Red Keep. He enjoyed being able to relax without thought of proper decorum - among the smallfolk, he could yell and shout and fart just like the rest of them and not be scolded for it. He had half a mind to go deeper into the Kingswood to celebrate his kill with them, but he had been gone for at least a few hours now, and he was certain his absence had been noticed.

"We're going back to the keep, boy," he said to his horse, patting Flatfoot's head when the horse leaned down to accept his hand.

Flatfoot whinnied in return, turning his huge gray head back to look at Harry. Green flashed in his coal black eyes.

Harry decided to lash the stag to the horse's back, and pulled a rope from his pack. He cleared his mind, leaving only intent, and the rope twisted about horse and stag all on its lonesome, tied by invisible hands.

Flatfoot bore the stag's weight with little issue. His horse was big, too big for a boy his age to ride and control, but his magic made the beast malleable, and he had never once fallen from the saddle. It was easy to control Flatfoot, to mold his magic to the horse's mind and set him to purpose. It was even easier than moving things with magic, though not as easy as setting things on fire.

He climbed into the saddle, checked his packs and his sword, just as he had been taught, and kicked Flatfoot into a nice canter. He could see King's Landing even from here. The Red Keep stretched high above the city, its seven massive drum towers like stout fingers reaching up to grasp the sky.

The three beat gait of his horse's trot was a calming staccato rhythm, and it carried him up the Kingsroad, pass the hovels and gutter rats, across the ferry and the Blackwater Rush, dotted with fishing and trading ships, through the huge river gate, and into the city proper.

From what he had learned of Westeros, King's Landing was rather unsightly in comparison to other great cities. It was too cramped - the buildings were too close, the streets were too narrow. It was closed in by tall ramparts and massive parapets, and he could make out a few archers manning the crenels as he rode through the gate.

King's Landing was as filthy as ever, and in the midday heat, the odor was quite noticeable. Horse shit, slop and worse things riddled the streets, the smell so sharp and pungent he wanted to gag. He didn't think he would ever grow accustomed to the many smells of the city, and how could he? Servants kept the Red Keep pristine, and scented oils and candles burned in every room and every hall. It was one thing to play in mud and dirt, quite another to go willingly traipsing through puddles of shit.

Flatfoot didn't seem to mind, however, and trotted along gaily, the stag still lashed firmly to his back. They went first thru Fishmonger's Square, where the smell of fish almost overcame the smell of shit, then along the Hook and its curving cobbled road, where he was hailed by children running the streets, women washing in the windows and even the men as they worked, pushing carts and selling wares, before finally arriving at the Red Keep. He imagined his Mother was waiting for him, with Maester Pycelle at her heels like the shiftless fool he was, frowning down at him from the castle steps.

He imagined his father as he always did; as the king always _was_ - drunken, surrounded by whores, mind absent of worries for wife or children. King Robert wouldn't care what Harry was doing, so long as he stayed out of his way.

Despite that, he couldn't wait to show his father his kill. He hadn't had a father in his past life, and this one was proving a disappointment... but he still longed for his approval, craved it even, almost as much as, if not more than his brother did. King Robert paid his sons little mind, and his daughter even less, and though he had more words for Harry than he did for Joffrey, it wasn't as many words as he had for the whores who warmed his bed.

It hadn't always been that way. When he was very young, his father had played with him, and Joffrey, and Myrcella too, when she was born... but as they grew older, so too did he grow distant, till sometimes he seemed not even a father at all.

Joffrey was most affected by the King's dismissal, and found solace in their mother and her honeyed words of encouragement, whilst Harry turned his efforts to impress upon Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and a true noble man, then to Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard and even his grandfather, the one time he'd met him. Stern as he was, Lord Tywin had many stories to tell, and despite the macabre nature of war, and the cruelty Lord Tywin had spoken of so casually, Harry was thoroughly enraptured by the tales of battle.

He remembered battles. They were different, in his dreams, than what Lord Tywin and Jaime described. The Lannister men spoke of swords and blood, of death and glory, of reaving and raping, and all things in between.

But wizards weren't made of the things the Westerosi were; very few wizards killed, in proportion to the people of Westeros, and even less deigned to rape. Harry would be surprised if there was a single ser in Westeros who hadn't killed at least one man. In his dreams, though, he could count on two hands the number of wizards he'd witnessed take a life, himself included. The Battle of Hogwarts didn't hold a candle to even the smallest of Westerosi wars.

"Prince Harry," a gruff voice announced, cutting his musings short.

Ser Brenden, one of the Gold Cloaks at the gate stepped forward to aid his dismount, while the other, Ser Connell moved to take the stag down from his horse. Ser Brenden was young, just one and twenty, with dark brown hair and a plain, flat face. He was the captain of the gate guard, and had become something of a familiar face over the years. He had been knighted in service to Lord Rosby, after being assigned to guard his retinue; something to do with outlaws, on the road to Maidenpool. Harry had heard the story from Ser Brenden himself, after he'd pestered the man about his knighting, but had since forgotten the finer details. Ser Brenden wasn't much of an orator, and not one for boasting either; the tale had seemed rather dull with him telling it.

Ser Connell was older, six and twenty, and bald of head, with features as sharp as a dagger and a nose as long as one. He rarely said anything save to complain, and was more prickly than he had any right to be. Harry didn't know how he had become a knight, and hardly cared to ask.

He saw a group of people waiting for him at the entrance to the Keep, but neither his mother nor the Grandmaester were among them. _'Thank the gods,'_ he thought.

Instead it was his uncle Tyrion's ugly misshapen face that he saw first, his pretty little sister Myrcella with him, and Sers Aron and Arys and...'_Bloody hell.'_ His Uncle Stannis stood amongst the group. Stannis was the single most dour man in all the Seven Kingdoms, and by far the most boring. He never laughed or smiled. Harry rather thought that he didn't know how.

_'Why is he here?'_, he wondered, before shrugging away his dread at seeing his uncle. He preferred his shorter, blonder uncle to his taller darker one. Still, Stannis was a good man - just, and lawful, though he would never be accused of being likable.

Ser Connell staggered under the weight of the deer, and Ser Brenden rushed to help him. Ser Connell turned a confused face down to Harry. "How did you get this up here?" He seemed annoyed by the weight of it, as if he'd been done some grievance.

"The smallfolk of the Kingswood helped," Harry said.

"You killed it yourself?" Ser Brenden asked.

Harry nodded in return, and the young knight let out a low whistle.

"Quite impressive," he said. "I was twice your age when I killed my first stag."

He called for servants from the Keep, and as Harry approached the small crowd assembled to greet him, two servants, young men the both of them, scurried out to take hold of the carcass. He hadn't seen exactly where they had come from - behind the curtain walls the keep was a maze, dotted with courtyards and bridges and barracks and even dungeons, as if one wasn't enough.

"Wait for me in front of the Great Hall," he instructed them, and they hastened to do his bidding. They weren't as bad as house elves, but it was still strange to him for people to be so subservient.

"Ah, you've finally decided to grace us with your exalted presence," Tyrion quipped. "Let us all bow before the great lesson-skipping Prince." And bow he did, his big head almost touching the floor. "And celebrate his arrival with wine and women. More of one than of the other, though I'm not quite sure which..." he trailed off as if seriously contemplating the matter.

Harry grinned, even as Stannis drew his face into a sneer.

"Really Harry, what possessed you to run off this time? Not that I blame you, this Keep is an awfully dreadful place... and the company!" he said, sounding appalled. "Some are no better than brick walls, for all their ranks and titles -"

"Quiet, Imp." Stannis glared at Tyrion, barely sparing Harry a glance.

Most people couldn't stand to look him in his eyes; especially those with secrets. He could see them sometimes, their secrets, and they could feel the weight of his gaze, judging the things they would rather hide away in the shadows of their mind. Stannis, however, didn't seem the sorts for secrets. Harry surmised his avoidance of eye contact to be a different matter entirely.

"The King wishes to see you," said Stannis. "You've skipped out on your lessons. Again."

"I haven't missed my arms lesson, have I?" Harry asked Ser Aron, seemingly ignoring Stannis. The Dornishman wasn't his favorite knight, but he was Master-at-Arms for a reason. He nodded in greeting to Ser Arys standing dutifully in Myrcella's shadow, and winked at his sister.

"No, my prince," Ser Aron began, "but do you recall what the Queen said about missing your lessons?" He was a vain man, but so too was he honorable, and he would not disobey the Queen. Not in this. "No arms practice until -"

"After my book lessons." Harry finished sourly. He pouted, trying to get a laugh out of Myrcella. She was easily amused, and hid her giggles behind her hand, trying to muffle the sound.

"Don't pout, boy. You're a prince - act like it," said Stannis.

Harry's face curled into a frown. He wasn't pouting just to be pouting; he was entertaining his sister! Her laughter was a precious thing. Would that he could make music of it, men and women across the continent would flock to listen.

"Master-of-Ships and messenger; my lord, where do you find the time to manage it all?" Tyrion said.

The dwarf was a master of mockery, having spent his entire life the butt of jokes, and Harry silently thanked him for his quick wit. For all his dislike of Stannis, Harry didn't like to goad him _too_ much. It didn't seem fair... that, however, didn't stop him from enjoying his uncle's discomfort at the hands of others.

But Stannis wasn't a man who took insults lightly. Instead of replying, he settled on a glare so full of vitriol that Tyrion said nothing else, bidding his niece and nephew goodbye.

"I've a woman to see about a particular itch," was all he said, and then he was waddling through the gate, into the city and away from the keep.

Harry raised a questioning eye at Myrcella, wondering why she was present. He asked her as much.

"I was waiting for you... you promised to play with me, remember?" She sounded put out, a frown marring her pretty face.

_'She looks just like mother,'_ he thought.

But he didn't remember his promise. How could he? Aside from lessons in history and law and language, he practiced with sword and lance and bow everyday, and all the free time he could spare was spent pondering the mysteries of wand-making. Or exploring the mysteries of the keep, and sometimes, the mysteries of the people within. Very intricate, those mysteries, and he was no closer to solving them, for all his hard work. All the wands he crafted snapped after a few spells, he had yet to find the hoard of dragon eggs the Mad King whispered of, and he still didn't know if Varys was a fat, manly woman, or a fat, womanly man, and the Spider _never_ looked him in the eyes.

"Well I can't now, but later I'll come find you and then we can go on an adventure, ok?"

She nodded happily, but didn't leave until coaxing another promise out of her brother. Afterwards, Ser Arys escorted her back to whatever stuffy room the Septa kept her holed up in.

"Well, Uncle Stannis, Ser Aron, shall we?" Even Stannis's dour personality wouldn't ruin his mood. Today, he had proved himself a hunter.

He walked past them into the Keep, Ser Aron falling in behind him. The doors were opened for them, massive constructs of oak banded with black iron. Stannis seemed less inclined to sneer now that Tyrion was gone, but was no more amicable.

Ghosts greeted Harry in the halls with disparaging oaths, and some tried to scare him, popping out of the black suits of armor that lined the halls. He didn't reply - as only he could see them, it didn't seem wise.

"You brought down that stag yourself?" Ser Aron asked. There was a tinge of disbelief in his voice; he had only just recently begun training Harry in the art of the longbow.

"It wasn't that hard," said Harry. "You just have to be persistent... and quick. And lucky," he added after a moment.

"That you are," Ser Aron agreed. "Though I'd like you to rely less on luck in the future."

Harry nodded.

"Good job, though... Prince Joffrey couldn't manage it, not now, and not at your age either. Meet me at the training grounds after your lessons."

No doubt for some manner of grueling drill.

"I will," said Harry. "I still need to work on my aim."

"You're only eight," Ser Aron said. "I'm a man grown, and I still work on my aim. A true warrior never stops his practice."

And he too departed, turning down a hall, leaving Harry and Stannis alone.

"I know the way, uncle, or did my father bid you to see me all the way to the throne room?"

He would rather not have to walk with Stannis. Maybe he was being childish, but his uncle was ruining his mood. His presence, overbearing and unyielding, was stifling to Harry - he was like a mass of dark clouds blocking the sun.

Stannis didn't reply at first, and his face never once softened from the slight sneer he had been sporting since Tyrion left. Harry wondered just what had happened to make Stannis such a man, absent of smiles or laughter, when Renly, his other uncle, was so light-hearted, and his father so often full of drink all he did was make fun.

"Why must you insist on these childish endeavors? Sneaking out of the city to hunt alone in the Kingswood is folly."

Harry blinked. "Erm... I am a child," he replied, and something in his voice made Stannis' sneer deepen. Harry thought he looked like a snarling dog. "I don't see the big deal. The small folk love me. Nothing would've happened," he said, defensive.

"Robert felt the same," Stannis said, and he sounded annoyed at the fact. "But even in times of peace there are men who would strike at the king. Men who would have no qualms taking his son hostage. At least take a guard if you insist on this foolishness." Harry, however, had stopped listening.

"What do you mean, 'felt'... how does he feel now?"

His punishments for skipping lessons had always been light. Usually, he was just forced to do extra reading, on top of what he had missed, which wasn't bad - he rather liked the reading. It was Maester Pycelle who bored him. King Robert didn't care about his son skipping lessons, and no man in the keep would dare lay one hand on either of the princes without the king's permission, and he had never given it. Harry's wet nurse had given him a few smacks here and there when he was young, but they had been well deserved, and she'd apologized so profusely he hadn't done anything about it.

Joffrey had never been disciplined a day in his life. Pate, the whipping boy, took all the beatings for him.

"Go into the Great Hall and find out," Stannis said.

He had said all that he was going to say, it seemed, for he took his leave then, leaving Harry to face his father alone._ 'Good riddance,'_ the boy thought. Now the sun could shine.

The servants from earlier were waiting for him. They had managed to find a wooden tray large enough to hold the carcass.

The guards standing at the oak and bronze doors pushed them open and he walked into the throne room. It was completely cavernous, the walls decorated with hunting tapestries and the banners of House Baratheon. Ornate candelabra lined the red carpet leading to the throne, blanketed on each side by massive vined pillars. It was mostly empty, save for a few dining Lords, most of them drinking - Thoros, his father's good friend, was surrounded by cups - and a spattering of guards, his uncle, the golden-haired Ser Jaime among them. He was the only knight of the Kingsguard present.

His father stood before the twisting, hulking mass of the Iron Throne and its raised dais, his back to the door, a flask in hand, one foot propped up on the narrow steps. He was a massive man, six and a half feet tall, with wide, broad shoulders and a monstrous belly. His hair was as black as night, his beard thick and bushy. His skin was flushed, no doubt from wine, but he didn't seem that far into his cups yet. Jon Arryn, old and weathered, with a lined, craggy face and thinning gray hair, stood at his side facing the door, awash in his house colors of blue and white. They appeared to be in conversation. Joffrey's whipping boy, Pate, surprisingly, stood off to the side, arms folded behind his back, his whole demeanor dejected, and his mother sat on her stool beside the Iron Throne itself, in the shadow of its thousands of swords, sipping red wine. She was as beautiful as she always was, and her golden hair shone especially bright, her lips red like fire. She looked deep in thought, far, far away, eyes half closed as if dazed, but she perked up as he walked closer.

"Your Grace," announced the guard at the door. "The Prince has arrived, and he bears tribute."

Robert waved him over, only glancing briefly at his son before resuming his conversation with Jon. Pate, he saw as he drew nearer, appeared to be preparing himself for some daunting task.

His mother finished her wine in one mighty gulp, then rose to greet her son, descending from the throne with all the grace of a dancer.

"Harry dear, come." She beckoned him closer.

She mentioned nothing of the stag the servants carried behind him, and she didn't seem to be mad about his skipping his lesson. She just looked relieved, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Never did, in fact, and he wondered if it was because she had figured out what he could do, or if she just didn't like the look of them. How could she not, though - they were her own green eyes, set in a face like his father's, with thick, dark hair to match.

"You skipped another lesson," she said without preamble.

He opened his mouth to protest but she shushed him with a finger.

"I warned you to not defy me, and you ignored my warning. Now you will have your father to answer to."

She seemed remorseful, an odd emotion for his mother to show, and patted his head affectionately, blessing him with a soft kiss against his brow.

"Visit me later, love, and tell me what sort of adventure could call you out of the city absent a guard. I assume it had something to do with the dead stag?"

He nodded, expression sheepish, and she smiled, a slight, crooked thing, truer still than the smiles he had seen her give to others.

"I hope it was worth it." She kissed him again, on the cheek this time, and caressed his face, fingers dancing along his jawline, her gaze distant once more. "So willful, even more than your brother." She sighed. "What ever will I do with you..." She trailed off, her voice soft. She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him.

"Mother?"

What did she see in him, that made her treat him so much differently from his brother and sister? Sometimes she wouldn't even acknowledge him, seemed to go out of her way to avoid him, and other times... other times she held him close, and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. Sometimes she was scathing, as sharp and cutting as a sword, and other times she was nice, soft and sweet and loving. It was another mystery he had yet to solve.

"Anyway," she began, shaking herself from her reverie. "I have meetings to attend and ladies to entertain. Be good. I'll be in my solar." She patted his cheek and left the room, followed by a trail of hand maidens and the ladies in the hall who'd apparently been waiting for her departure.

Harry turned his attention to his father, who had yet to acknowledge him. He waited in silence, and as the time went by, he began to fiddle nervously with the buttons of his jerkin. Just as he was about to speak up the King turned to face him, his expression bored, until he caught sight of the stag. His eyes lit up, fat face spreading into a smile.

"You brought it down yourself? Without help?"

Harry nodded once, his eyes shifting to Lord Jon to gauge his reaction. Jon appeared impressed.

"Look at that, Jon," the King said. "Eight years old, and already hunting stag. You'll be coming with me on the next hunting trip."

Harry was pleased, and he smiled so wide his face hurt. "Thank you father."

"But," he began, and as he did, Pate stepped forward, and revealed that he had been holding a rod behind his back. "You skipped your lesson, again, after your mother forbade you to do so. This is the fifth time in as little as two weeks, and since no other punishment has worked..." He took the rod from Pate. "We'll try a new one."

Harry gulped. A whipping? He wasn't afraid of pain, but it seemed rather extreme for skipping a lesson. Maester Pycelle was an old fool anyway, and despite his less than stellar attendance, he was even further along in his learning than Joffrey, who'd had a full year head start.

Stranger still was his father's participation in the first place.

"I noticed your displeasure last week, when those criminals were flogged in the city square," Jon Arryn said. "And so after much deliberation between your mother and I, we devised this punishment."

Harry was horrified. "My mother... and you," he said, staring unblinkingly into Lord Jon's face. The old man stared back, eyes apologetic, but whatever he saw there seemed to shake him, for he looked away first.

Harry had seen the truth of it. They were conspiring, Jon and his mother, and they had somehow gotten his father involved.

The King tossed the rod at his feet. "You'll whip him," and he nodded at Pate, "until I say stop, and then you will attend all your lessons, or you'll be made to do it again, and again, and again."

He opened his mouth to argue, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but Jon's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Even a Prince must be held responsible for his actions, and all the consequences that arise thereafter. You brought this on yourself Harry. Pate did nothing wrong, and deserves no punishment, but it is often that the innocent take the blame for the wicked. That is the way of the world."

"No," he said, aghast. "I refuse."

He couldn't believe Jon, of all people, would betray him in such a way. Jon, who never failed to preach on the virtues of honor, who implored him to be fair and just in all that he did, who had more hand in raising him than his own father.

"I skipped the lessons," he continued. "Not Pate."

Though he spoke to Lord Jon, but his eyes were on the King.

He expected his father to be angry, to lash out, as he lashed out at his mother, but instead, the king leveled him with a look he couldn't decipher. As if he was seeing someone else.

"You would deny your king?"

"I would," Harry said. "The innocent take the blame for the wicked in things beyond our control... this isn't such a situation. I will not whip Pate." He stood as straight and tall as he could, and he never looked away from his father. He didn't notice that nearly every eye and ear in the hall was on him.

"You've got some nerve, boy." Robert gestured to the rod. Pate retrieved it with shaking fingers, and presented it to his king. "More nerve than any man in all of the Seven Kingdoms. See here, boy, if you don't whip him, I will, and it'll be a lot worse coming from me."

Harry was beyond shocked. "You - you would do that? Just for skip - "

"This isn't about those bloody lessons!" Robert yelled, and his thunderous voice reached every ear within the hall, and some without. "You have a kind heart," he began again, quieter, and he sounded weary, older than his years. "Too kind, some say, and I agree."

Harry had never seen this side of his father before. So full of regret. _'Is that why he drowns himself in his cups?'_

"Better to be kind than cruel," Harry replied. "Would you rather I be like Joffrey?"

The King seemed to really be considering his question, or rather, reminiscing about something. "Gods, no," he said after a moment, shaking his head.

"But you are two sides of the same coin," Lord Jon cut in. "I would rather you learn to harden your heart, find a middle ground. A King can be both loved and feared," he said. "Loved for what he does, and feared for what he might do."

"A King? Me? Maybe you've forgotten in your old age -" and Robert laughed, a loud guffaw, startling Harry "- but I'm the second born son. Joffrey will be king." _'What the hell is going on with these two?'_

"The Seven help us," Jon muttered. "And yet you still must be prepared. You may not become a King, but you will always be a Prince. Your every action will reflect upon the throne. Mayhaps you would follow in my steps, and be Hand?" he said, louder now. "I've seen something in you, Harry. We all have. You are a very special boy, and it is good that you are kind, but this world has no place for kind men."

"Then I will make a place," Harry said.

"And to do that," Robert started, "you will have to change a lot of opinions. You'll need respect. Men respect steel. They respect death, but kindness? They'll take you as a craven."

They were pushing him awfully hard, Harry surmised. What was their purpose? What were they trying to get him to see? To become?

"What does that have to do with Pate?" he asked. "The punishment doesn't fit the crime. If a man is worthy of a beheading, then I will give him one. If a man rapes a lady, then I will take his manhood, but I will not whip Pate for my transgressions." He took a breath. "I'll take the beating, but spare Pate." The Hall was silent around him.

"He's a whipping boy, he's _for whipping,_" The King said, almost amused. Robert turned to Jon. "Hard to believe he's barely seen nine namedays." He sounded proud.

"Not really," Jon said. "This is Ser Barristan's fault." His voice was rueful.

"Ser Barristan?!" Robert exclaimed. "This is as much your fault as it is his!" He looked back at his son then, and his eyes went right through him. "Reminds me of Ned."

Lord Jon agreed wholeheartedly. "He's just as stubborn."

"That he is, bloody runt. He's a lion all right, a black lion with horns and hooves. The worst of both of us, Cersei and I. Or mayhaps he's the best..."

And then he struck Harry across his chest with a blow so strong it knocked him from his feet. It was so swift, so sudden, even Jon was caught off guard.

"But I've said my peace. Either you whip the boy, or I will." He leaned forward over Harry and held out the rod. "And that was just a warm-up."

Harry scowled at his father and picked himself up from the ground. Jaime, he noticed, had edged closer. "Just do it," his uncle mouthed.

Harry sighed. "Fine," he spat, accepting the rod from his father. He'd never dared to show such insolence, not to his father, but he'd never been in this situation before, and he found that his years of memories and experience paled in comparison to the emotion he felt, the hot anger coursing through his veins.

"Scowl at me all you want, boy. You'll thank me for this when you're older."

Harry almost laughed - would have, if he wasn't so furious. He was quite certain he was the oldest man in all the known world. Or a part of him was, at least.

The rod was light, but solid and smooth, unlike the barbed whips and rods used for criminals. He looked to Pate, and knew the resignation on his face was mirrored in his own. This was an argument he couldn't win. He was surprised he'd managed to argue as much as he did. He had only seen one man openly disagree with the king, and Jon Arryn occupied a place and status none could match.

He thought of the story his mother had told him, the warning she had given him, about when the King had struck Joffrey in a rage. She spoke of how angry he'd been, and how much it took for her to talk him out of a beating.

"You wouldn't remember," she had said, "for you were barely more than a babe."

She had never told him _why_ Joffrey was hit, only mentioned 'some nonsense over a cat', but he'd later discovered the truth from his brother. Joffrey had murdered a cat and her kittens, and thought to impress his father with their corpses. With one mighty blow, Robert had knocked two teeth from his mouth. He shuddered to think of how badly Joffrey would have been hurt if not for his mother.

Joffrey had murdered a cat, and Harry had argued with the king - in front of an audience, no less. Which was the greater transgression? Harry rather thought Joffrey's was. That cat and those kittens hadn't done anything to anyone, and kept mice out of the kitchen. His own grievance against his father was just in his eyes. And from the things he'd heard whispered of his father, things he refused to believe, Joffrey was just following in his footsteps.

Jon Arryn never sat with Joffrey, never spoke with him, never gave him lessons on ruling, or kingship, or leading men. Joffrey needed such lessons far more than he.

Surely they didn't mean to make him king?

"Get on with it boy!" Robert demanded, breaking him from his reverie.

"Yes, your Grace," he said, and he was unable to hide his anger. This wasn't fair, not by far, but he'd rather whip Pate himself than let his father do it. He'd find a way to make it up to Pate. 'I'm sorry.'

He never skipped another lesson.

* * *

Harry is 8. Your first nameday is the day your are born; in that vein, his ninth nameday is actually his eighth birthday.


	2. Restless and Reckless

**AN: **Thanks for the reviews. If you haven't, re-read chapter one. There were some major changes.

**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Game of** **Thrones.**

* * *

The sun was high in the sky, a great fist of burning orange fire. If not for the oceanic winds, Harry was sure he'd have toasted in his clothes. He'd risen with the sun in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking away to mingle with the more dedicated knights with but a slice of bread and a small bowl of soup to break his fast. Ser Aron met him in the yard, and he found that as the sun grew stronger and brighter in the sky, he grew shorter and shorter of breath, fatigue taking its toll.

"Keep the rhythm, Harry, and stay on your toes," Jaime instructed, steadily banging the flat of his sword against the rickety chest-high wooden fence that walled off the training yard. The beat had been slow at first - a different cadence than with spear, or in the tilts - but the longer Ser Aron and Harry danced, the quicker it became.

There were several barracks within the walls of the Red Keep, each made of the same pale red stone as the keep itself, and home to the sers and guardsmen of his father's court. They trained in the shadow of the largest, Ser Aron and Harry, and had been for some time, their faces dirtied, clothes damp with sweat. Ser Barristan watched from the other side of the yard, as silent and unmoving as stone, while Ser Jaime instructed.

Neither man wore their white Kingsguard armor, both instead in skirted jackets, Jaime's a crimson with golden highlights, and Ser Barristan's a dull grey. There was no love lost between the two knights - Ser Barristan knew Jaime as a man without honor, and Ser Jaime knew Barristan as a self-righteous old fool - but they respected the other's skill. Both of them were impressed with Harry, with his mind as well as his sword play, and it seemed a competition as to who could mold him into the better man.

"Good lad," Ser Barristan chimed in. "Mind your form - stay loose enough to move swiftly, but coiled enough to strike without pause. There is an opening in every attack - wait for it, then _strike_." He jabbed his sword into an invisible enemy to illustrate his point.

Harry took it all in stride, rather pleased with the attention. Who else could say they had two legendary knights as instructors, one of them Lord Commander of the Kingsguard? He was gifted with the sword, far more than he was with bow or lance, and he could twirl and twist his wrist with graceful precision that belied his young age.

He was quick, too, and Ser Aron would agree, as he ducked beneath a horizontal swing then spun away from the follow-up, his long black hair whipping into his face. He retaliated in kind, his practice sword flashing forward, swinging right to left and left to right at sharp angles, always in motion, just as he'd been taught.

Harry knew he was good, but he was no fool either. He could tell Ser Aron was holding back, moving slower than he would if truly pressed, telegraphing his exaggerated lunges and leaps. Still, he was hard pressed to keep up, and was ill-prepared for Ser Aron's sudden offense, aggressive as it was.

The dornishman feinted at his head, and as Harry ducked, he kicked his legs out from under him, and with a deft flick of his wrist, brought his sword to bear at Harry's chest, the blunted tip poking almost painfully into his padded doublet.

"Do you yield?" he asked unnecessarily.

Harry just scowled in return, but accepted his hand to pull him up from the ground, and handed the man his sword.

"You must remember - attack and defend at the same time. Or in your case, dodge and attack at the same time. Coordination is the key... but you _are_ improving, my prince. Your dedication these past few months has made me quite proud."

The man was almost preening, he was so pleased, as if he was the sole reason for Harry's prodigious skill.

"Stuff it, Ser Aron," he replied, wiping his face with his sleeve. He couldn't deny the truth of that statement, however.

In the months since the incident in the Great Hall, Harry had thrown himself into his duties, studying ahead of Maester Pycelle's lessons on his own time, and spending every waking hour in the training yard. It was all he could do not to hear Pate's cries, see the red welts blossoming on fair skin, the blood staining his shirt and running in rivulets down his back.

He'd whipped Pate black, blue, and red before his father allowed him to stop. He'd seen worse - just last week Ser Illyn Pane had beheaded a murderer from Flea Bottom who refused to take the Black - but never by his own hand. It sickened him, and his anger at his father had barely cooled in the time since. It made meal times awkward, to say the least, and had created even more dissent between himself and his brother, whose japing and jeering he could no longer ignore, so hot was his anger. His mother, however, had known exactly how to appease him, and to his chagrin, his displeasure with her had barely lasted past the night of the incident itself.

"I'm sorry, sweetling," she had said when he stormed into her chambers. "So very, very sorry. I knew this would hurt you, but I need my lion strong."

And she'd held him close, her chin resting on his head, his own tucked into the crook of her neck.

"This world is a cruel place, crueller than you could know." She'd sighed then, and he twisted about in her arms to look upon her face, for she would not release him from her hold. "I would spare you from it if I could, but I am only a woman, and it is not my place to fight the battles of men."

There had been a hint of something in her voice that had given him pause, made him reconsider his words, and instead of an angry tirade of her betrayal, he had merely said -

"And I'm glad of it. I would not have my father smelling of lavender and jasmine. Not very becoming of a man, is it?"

And she had laughed, a sound like a thousand tinkling bells.

His father, however, had done as he always did, paying more mind to his whores than Harry - save for hunting trips - trusting Jon Arryn to manage his son as he managed the realm. Harry had wondered, more times than he could count, how Robert had become king.

Oh, he knew the stories of the great Rebellion, had fallen asleep to them for many moons, but had those great, noble men not seen the truth of his father, seen what kind of man he really was? He had to admit, the king had a certain flair, knew how to put men at ease, how to command them, but he was oblivious to his failings as a King and a father, and it seemed to Harry that whoever Robert used to be had died the moment he'd sat his fat arse on the Iron Throne.

He'd had no more success crafting a wand in those few months either, and whenever he tried to question the Maester about magic, he was scolded not to entertain the 'imaginative fallacies of children.'

"Magic is a matter of the past," Pycelle had said, "when there were yet dragons soaring through the skies. Only darkness comes of magic, and you'll do well to remember that."

And so, bereft of a wand and ahead in his lessons, he'd implored Ser Aron to intesify his training. There had been little protest, for Ser Aron, in all his vanity, knew that he could forever claim himself as the guiding hand behind Harry's blossoming talent. A natural, they had called him. He hadn't realized, however, just how annoying Ser Aron's smug face could be, even if his own skill was the reason for said smugness.

"Is that anyway to speak to your instructor?" Jamie quipped amusedly before Ser Aron could speak. "I fear our Prince is forgetting his manners."

"You stuff it too, you buggering blonde ball-sack," he spat back, his brows furrowed. He wasn't angry with Ser Aron, or Ser Jaime, but he needed to vent.

Jaime's laugh was sudden and so fierce his eyes watered. He hadn't been expecting that response. "How crass," the knight said.

Ser Aron just shook his head, moving to put the practice swords back on their rack.

"For once, Kingslayer, I agree with you." Ser Barristan climbed into the training yard and walked towards Harry. "That was quite unbecoming," he admonished. "I didn't think you one for such talk."

Harry knew that Jaime wasn't the least bit insulted, and had no plans to apologize to his uncle.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Ser Barristan. I'll take care to censor my words in your presence." He smiled at his favorite knight, just a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, and the grizzled old man ruffled his hair in response.

"Gah, begone boy, you've spent enough time here, and you stink like a horse's arse."

Harry laughed at that, quick and short, but did as he was bid, returning to the keep to seek out a bath. Jaime fell into step behind him, still chuckling softly.

"You've been spending too much time with Tyrion," his uncle told him. "Or Tyrion's guests, maybe. He doesn't entertain whores in his apartments, does he? That would be like him - probably fucks them before sending them to the King."

Jaime bore no love for King Robert, and Harry supposed that was why they had become so close in the past few months.

The day after Pate's whipping, his uncle had found him in the training yard, banging his practice sword against a wooden dummy, eyes wet with tears. None fell, though, and when Jaime tried to comfort him he lashed out as if attacked, and thus began the first impromptu lesson that had since become a daily exercise.

Ser Aron had at first contested Jaime's 'interrupting' of his 'meticulously designed training schedule', but Jaime reminded him, less with words and more with steel, why he was regarded as one of the finest fighters in the kingdom. Since then, they had both taken to his instruction. Ser Barristan joined them only a week or so later, moved to action by Harry's newfound dedication to duty.

"You make this old man proud," he had told him one day. "Proud to serve such a fine prince."

Harry had wondered if that meant he didn't feel proud serving his father.

"Don't use such vulgar language, Ser Jaime," Harry admonished without feeling. He'd heard worse from the men in the barracks, and worse still from the sailors down in Fishmonger's Square. "You're a knight of the kingsguard, not some bloody freerider."

"But it's okay for a Prince? Tsk, tsk, my dear nephew, that's quite hypocritical of you. If I recall correctly - and I do - not even five minutes ago you called me a 'buggering, blo -"

"Shut it Jaime, _please_." he said, abandoning his false courtesy. "I'm not in the mood for your wit, _dear_ Uncle."

"Oh? A shame, that, because I _am_ in the mood for my wit. It's quite..." he trailed off, grasping for something to say. "Witty." He finished lamely.

"Ha, ha, ha," Harry replied drolly. "That was terrible."

"Yes, well, we can't all be at our best all the time." He was silent for but a moment. "You're annoyed at something. Or someone."

"... Not _annoyed_, exactly," he admitted.

Jaime didn't press him for more, and said nothing else as they walked, their silence companionable.

Harry wondered if Jaime and Tyrion knew how alike they were. Tyrion was certainly cleverer, but both sought solace in japing, and they treated him, not as a 'foolish-boy' or a 'sweetling', but as a man.

They were, he thought somewhat sadly, some of his only true friends. The children who came to court with their lord and lady parents were nice, and every once in a while he enjoyed their games, the few times he was allowed to play, but mostly they served only to annoy him, boys and girls playing at being adults.

And other adults, save a handful, treated him as they did those children. It annoyed him immensely. Coupled with his anger at his father, his temper was running hot all hours of the day, simmering just below a full boil. If not for Occlumency, he was sure he'd have exploded by now.

The Keep was alive with action; servants scurried through the corridors like headless chickens, bearing trays of food and flagons of ale, and hand-maidens and dressing-maids weaved in and out of the bedlam wielding fine cloths and foreign lace. He saw his father's youngest brother, Renly, a tall, broad, handsome black haired man, walking with one of them - a dark-haired woman from Pentos, if he remembered right. As they walk past in the hall, his uncle gave a loud cheer.

"Hail the Prince!" Renly knew how much he disliked being hailed, and he returned the cheer with a scowl.

But Renly only laughed though, nodding to Jaime as he and the woman turned a corner.

"He's probably going to have his own gown made," Jaime joked.

"I said _shut it_."

Jaime chuckled in response, tickled by Harry's mood, but said no more.

There was a tourney being held in belated celebration of his nameday in six days, and already hopefuls were coming into King's Landing, hedge knights and landed knights and all those in between.

The notable among them came to the Keep to show their fealty to the King, and a few were given leave to house in the easternmost of the barracks. The only one he knew was Thoros of Myr, who'd been away from the Keep fighting in a Tourney in the Reach. The purse had been grand, he'd heard, and the priest, with his flaming sword, had claimed the mêlée. Harry was more than certain that the balding, bearded man was drinking with his father. Arbor wine, no doubt, and maybe even rum; the good kind, not that 'black tar shite', as his father put it.

His actual nameday celebration hadn't garnered as much attention, thank the gods, save from the smallfolk. From that day - the last day of the seventh month - and the weeks since he'd been unable to travel through the city for fear of being mobbed by his 'worshipers', as Tyrion called them, men and women and children who were beyond enamored with their beloved prince.

Sometimes he cursed his bleeding heart, remnants of a life far removed from Westeros, but he couldn't help but love them - they who worshiped the ground he walked on, from the girls who swooned when graced with a smile to the men who preened with pride when given a nod of recognition. Heaven forbid he greet them by name; one man, of an age with Ser Barristan, had broken into tears when Harry had bid him a good morrow.

It was exasperating, really, but he loved them nonetheless.

Their journey through the corridors carried them into the heart of the keep, across the dry moat lined with wicked iron spikes into Maegor's Holdfast, and the royal apartments within.

The tower was massive, essentially a castle within a castle, with solid stone walls some twelve feet thick. Harry rather thought that Maegor, for whom the fortress was named, had been awfully paranoid. Who needed such thick walls?

And then he remembered the story of Maegor, and how he had executed all who worked on the castle to preserve its secrets, and he thought of his own interactions with the ghost king. _'Definitely paranoid.'_

If not for his magic - proof in Maegor's eyes that he was a 'Targaryen scion', despite his coloration - he was certain the ghost wouldn't have bothered with him. He had been intrigued that Harry could see him, but it was the magic that drew him in.

He hoped he never grew that paranoid, but as his eyes roved the walls, falling across the cracks and crevices in the aged stone, and the nooks and crannies of the alcoves that dotted the corridors, he suddenly felt cramped, as if the walls were closing in on him, pressing down from all sides. The keep was a stone giant and he was falling deeper and deeper into its crushing maw.

"I have to get out of this place," he announced suddenly as they came upon his chambers. "This Keep... it's suffocating." He sighed. "And Joffrey isn't helping either."

For the past week his brother had tried and failed to bully him into submission. Whenever Joffrey pushed him, or broke his toys, or demanded his obedience, Harry pushed back harder, broke more toys, and told him he could stuff his 'obedience'. Harry didn't like to respond in kind, but he had seen inside his brother's head, seen the foul, vile thing that he was, and his contempt of him colored every interaction.

Joffrey had tried to terrorize Myrcella at one point, but Harry had been extra vigilant, expecting his brother to target their little sister, so when Joffrey went to her, Harry was waiting. They had come to blows then, the royal brothers, but with all his practice, Harry was stronger and faster. There had been little contest, and he remembered Myrcella screaming, begging them to stop.

"You're family!" she had screamed.

He was ashamed he had lost his temper, but counted the confrontation a victory; Joffrey never bothered Myrcella again, though he still tried his best to humiliate and aggravate Harry. However, because Joffrey was heir to the throne, he had suffered naught for his 'crimes'. Harry though, had been 'forced' to write lines.

He could have refused if he so chose, but he didn't want to emulate his brother's petulant behavior. Besides, Myrcella had sat with him, and with a little concentration he had been able to magic the quill to write on its own, and with a little misdirection his jailor for that evening - Septa Eglantine - had been none the wiser. She had, in fact, been quite impressed by his handwriting.

"It _has_ been a while since you went into the city," Jaime said, interrupting his thoughts. "Want to chance a trip? If I recall, you started a small riot last time you ventured into the streets."

"Yeah," he said, reticent. "I think it might be for the best... I'll need a disguise though. Last time some woman pinched my cheeks." He shuddered. "They were sore by the time I got away."

"Your mother pinches your cheeks all the time," his uncle pointed out.

"... Not those cheeks," he replied as he opened the door.

He stepped into his chambers, Jaime's guffaw following him into the room, though thankfully the knight waited outside.

It was sparsely decorated compared to his mother's chambers. The worn stone walls were mostly blank, absent tapestries or portraits, save for a massive map of Westeros on the far wall, a polished silver mirror to the left of it, a stained glass window to the right. His bed was in the opposite corner, to the left of the door, and next to it sat an ebony end table, its drawers fill with dozens of 'sticks'.

The chest at the foot of his bed was one of the most ornate things in the room, the pine emblazoned with bronze lions and black iron stags. It was filled with clothes; brocade jackets and doublets and breeches. The room was lit with torchlight, a brazier hanging from each wall, and to the right of the door was the small set of steps that led up to his solar.

His servant, Alik, a bald, gangly man almost ten years his senior, was waiting for him in the solar.

The room was half as big as his bedchamber, and much more cramped. Each wall was covered with a shelf, and each self lined with books.

_'Hermione would be proud.'_ From what he had glimpsed of her in his dreams, and what he could remember, she had been quite fond of books and learning.

There were copies of tomes from the Citadel in Oldtown, the city of Maesters, chronicling histories and myths from both sides of the narrow sea. He hadn't read even half of them yet, but he hoped to find some sort of reasoning for his reincarnation in one of them.

Alik sat at the table in the center of the room, a rickety old thing, stained with ink and covered in parchment. A tray of bread and soup sat before him on the table. It was still steaming, and it smelled of lamb. Unbidden, his stomach rumbled; he hadn't realized how hungry he was. Trust Alik to know. "I'm going into the city," he told his servant

Alik only nodded. He never said much, and he could barely read, but Harry didn't mind - he had stopped kneeling every time Harry entered his rooms, and for that, he would excuse most anything.

Harry broke off some of the bread and dunked it in the soup. "Help yourself," he told Alik as he bit into the bread. "And save some for Mikael. He deserves it - my boots have never shined so bright."

Mikael, the bootboy, was a year younger than Harry, and served Joffrey and the King as well.

Alik nodded again, smiling, and helped himself to a small chunk of bread.

"If anyone asks where I am, tell them I've gone to the Godswood. Hopefully no one will come looking."

He snagged another piece of bread before leaving Alik in the solar. He decided not to bathe - after all, the smallfolk didn't - instead changing into the oldest clothes he could find; a pair of tan, worn breeches, and a white tunic two sizes to big.

When he heard him rummaging around, Alik descended from the solar, fussing in his silent way - he _was _his servant after all, and it was his duty to help him dress. Harry was having none of it though - he could very well dress himself - and instead bid Alik to gather an ensemble for the tourney.

Alone now, he found one of Alik's cloaks, a tattered brown thing, and threw it across his shoulders before pulling up the hood to hide his face in shadow. _'Good enough, I suppose.'_ He slid a dagger into his belt, tucked his coin purse next to it, and on a whim, decided to take one of his weirwood wands. He could do better without it, but there was a certain comfort in holding the gnarled stick.

There were secret passageways all over the Keep, and thanks to Maegor, he was familiar with most of them. There was a painting in the fourth alcove of the hall outside that hid a small knob. After he bid Jaime goodbye, he went to the alcove and pressed the knob, and a ways down the hall, a child-sized hole opened in a shadowed corner of the corridor. It reminded him of the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the steep decline leading into darkness, and he gave a whoop of delight as he slid down the chute to the tunnels below the Keep. There was no basilisk at the end of this tunnel, however - just freedom.

* * *

He wandered the winding Street of Flour, his hood drawn over his head, one hand fingering his coin purse, the other palming the wand tucked in his belt. He had felt uneasy ever since passing through the slums of Flea Bottom and its too-thin streets and too-close buildings, paranoid that he was being watched.

In fact, he was sure he was being watched, followed even, and so he walked almost aimlessly, pausing at a few vendors here and there, sampling pastries and cakes and pies, with no rhyme or reason to his stops. Stars and stags went far on this side of Rhaenys's Hill, and he always paid more than necessary, sharing his food with any street urchin bold enough to approach him.

King's Landing, from dawn till dusk and in the twilight hours after, was a teeming hive of activity. As he had come down the Street of Looms he saw crowds of men and women perusing the stores and stalls, peering through windows at silk gowns and linen doublets, and velvet jackets and satin cloaks.

One man, massive and square faced, showed off his bearskin vest to a group of his fellows, while a woman, thin and small, argued vehemently with a merchant over the price of a slip of silk lace, her powerful voice belying her stature. Her child, a little wisp of a girl, snatched a length of cloth from the stall, the vendor none the wiser.

He'd passed a few pot-shops when he strolled down Pisswater Bend, haggard men standing in the storefronts peddling the infamous bowls o' brown. He'd heard rumors that the bowls o' brown often _were_ people, cooked and boiled with onions and barley and carrots. He wasn't of a mind to discover if the rumors held any truth.,

People didn't smile as much in Flea Bottom, and he couldn't blame them. They were the drudges of society, the lowest rung of the social ladder, and they lived miserable lives in miserable conditions - he expected to see a herd of pigs running through the streets, so pungent was the stench. He pitied them, the people, and as he walked the street, he dropped coins in his wake, safe in the knowledge that the currency was sorely needed by whomever might find it. It wasn't much, but a little help was better than no help at all.

He thought, belatedly, that that was when he'd picked up his tail. He hadn't felt the eyes upon him until passing through Flea Bottom, and the feeling didn't abate along the Street of Flour, nor as he climbed the hill to the mighty Dragon Pit.

Its shadow loomed over the slums like a giant specter, but what might have once been a majestic sight was soured by the disrepair of the building, the domed roofed collapsed, the bronze doors tarnished, the stone walls covered in weeds and vines. Atop Rhaenys's Hill, it was one of the three pillars of King's Landing, and had been abandoned long before his time, when the last of the dragons died out.

_'That's what I need,'_ Harry thought._ 'A bloody dragon.'_ He rolled his wand in his palm, quite certain that he'd manage better spells wandlessly than with the volatile thing.

He had tried a simple transformation spell the other day and instead set fire to his boots. Without a true core for his wand he feared he would never be able to use magic as he once had, as he dreamed he had, and he was sure such a thing was necessary. Why else would he have been reincarnated with memories of his past life? He had been reborn with a purpose, a fate, and given his last tangle with destiny, he was sure he would need every weapon at his disposal for whatever horrors there be in the future.

As he came upon the ruined Dragonpit, houses framing the street on either side of him, he heard a voice from behind, more a loud mumble than anything coherent. He turned to look, startled, but he saw only a child, younger even than he was, barefoot and in threadbare clothing, his breeches more like shorts, his once white shirt stained tan, with shaggy brown hair framing a round, filthy face.

_'**He's** been following me?'_ Harry shook his head, a smile spreading slowly across his face. 'I was going to curse a kid!'

He couldn't ignore the fact that the boy _had_ been following him, however. In his guise, no one knew him as the prince - where Harry Baratheon would've been followed by a mass of people the moment he left the safety of the Red Keep, a shifty looking little man in a cloak should have been left to his devices.

"Can I help you?" he asked, still wary.

There weren't many people around - just a smattering of women, as most men were engaged in work by this time of day - and no Gold Cloaks either.

The boy mumbled loudly - Harry couldn't make out what he said - and then he heard footsteps, more children stepping out from between the houses and buildings that lined the street.

A boy clad in navy rags stalked over from his left, tall and thin, like a whip. He was bald with wide eyes and a monstrous nose - it overshadowed the rest of his face, a massive mountain in the middle of a grassland - and he'd had to stare for a moment to even see passed it. He carried a long shaft of tan wood whittled to a point, and had a net tied to his waist.

_'A fisherman's son, maybe?'_

Two more came from the right, one a short, bright-haired boy in brown drabs with fattest lips he had ever seen. His other features were otherwise dull and unmemorable, but he bore some resemblance to the first boy.

The second was a girl, at least as tall as he was, her skin pale as mare's milk, with a long face, full lips, dirtied silver and blonde hair and big, slanted midnight blue eyes. She was comely, despite her scowl, her features sharp and exotic, very different from most anyone Harry had ever met. Her cloak was of decent make, and the tip of a bow peaked over her shoulder.

"Give us yer' coin," the tall, bald one said. His voice was rough, but he sounded young and completely uneducated.

"Don't try nothin' neither," the one with fat lip's warned, his voice light. "Or else," the boy threatened.

_'I'll call him Fat Lip,'_ Harry thought. _'It's certainly fitting.'_

Despite the situation, Harry smiled at the shorter boy, his worry gone. He had imagined a sellsword or some deranged psychopath cornering him like this, not a group of kids. His smile turned into a laugh. That made them angry, and the tall one frowned.

"Oi, we ain't playin'!"

And he waved his stick as emphasis, while the first boy mumbled in agreement. The girl was silent, sizing him up, her scowl sharpening.

"You've been following me, I suspect? Since Flea Bottom, at least. You've seen me leaving coins in the road, and yet, you resort to thievery? Why not just ask?"

The three boys looked dumbstruck - they hadn't considered that. One boy mumbled - Harry decided to call him 'Mumbles' - and the tallest spoke up again. He might have been the mouthpiece, but Harry rather thought that the girl was the leader of this merry little band.

"Well, can we have yer coin?"

Harry paused for a moment, as if in thought. "...No."

"What?!" Fat Lip exclaimed. "You said -"

"I only asked why _you_ didn't ask... why you just decided to resort to banditry when I've already proven myself willing to give to the needy," Harry explained.

"We don't need you to _give_ us your coin," the girl spat. Her voice was deeper than he'd expected it to be, robust, yet melodious. "We're taking it. Jerryd is Ironborn, it's what they do."

Jerryd, the bald boy, puffed out his chest and brandished his spear. "Yeah, I'm Ironborn and we do not sow," he said.

Mumbles mumbled in support, but Harry could tell that neither of them understood the Greyjoy house motto. And he was certain that Jerryd was no Greyjoy bastard._ 'Maybe he heard the words from a sailor?'_ There _was_ a possibility his father was from the Iron Islands, though.

"Ironborn, eh? You don't look like an Ironborn. What's your name then?"

"His _name_ is Jerryd!" Fat Lip said, indignant. "And if you don' give us yer coin he'll stick you good! Stick em', Jerryd!"

Jerryd, for all his height and bravado, proved a horrible fighter. He ran at Harry with a shout, brandishing his spear above his head, his steps clumsy and awkward. Harry stepped beside his first thrust, and slapped the spear to the side, drawing his dagger from his belt in one deft motion. With a quick step, he'd brought its edge up to Jerryd's throat.

_'So this is what it's like to fight someone other than knights.'_

"Name?" His eyes flickered to the others, watching for any movement.

Fat Lip wore a stupefied expression, his jaw hanging, eyes wide in shock. Mumbles hid his surprise much better - only his eyebrows gave away his reaction, nestled nearer his hairline than they'd been a moment ago. The girl still scowled, and she pulled an arrow from within the folds of her cloak, one hand reaching for her bow.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned. "You shoot me with an arrow and the City Watch will have to throw you in the dungeons. A pretty girl like you? It would be hell." _'Ugh.'_ He gave a mental shudder. _'I sound like Jaime.'_

"There are no witnesses here," she replied, incensed. "No one is going to see me kill you." She waved to her friends, her other hand inching closer to her bow . "And they won't tell."

Fat Lip looked a little queasy at the mention of murder though, and Jerryd had started to sweat.

Harry tutted, shaking his head. "If you touch that bow, I'm going to slit his throat."

To show how serious he was, he dug the knife deeper in Jerryd's throat. If he pressed a little harder, pulled back just a bit, the skin would break. He was bluffing, but _they_ didn't know that. Nor did he think the girl would shoot him. He had heard of the child thieves in Flea Bottom, scoundrels scrapping for food and clothes and warm places to sleep. These four, however, weren't as grungy as he had expected from the stories, the girl especially.

Just as he had thought, she dropped her hand, a hint of petulance creeping into her ever present scowl. _'She's young too,'_ he surmised. He wasn't sure how young though; her cloak only revealed the barest hint of curves.

"Fine. Let him go," she said.

"After he answers my question," Harry returned. He glanced back at the frightened Jerryd. "I asked for your name, Ironborn..."

"I don't have a name, I don't have one!" he cried. "I'm just a bastard, just a fisherman, this was Aeryn's idea, I just wanted to go to the docks - !"

"Coward!" Aeryn exclaimed. "You're about to piss yourself... you really think that little lord is gonna kill you?"

"He's a Lord?" Fat Lip gasped. "How d'ya know?" He turned curious eyes upon Harry.

Even Jerryd, frightened as he was, paused in his whimpering to look Harry over.

"S' boots," Mumbles mumbled. "Nice un's." The boy could barely talk, but he was perceptive.

"And his breeches are fine, and his coin purse is fat." Aeryn added on.

Harry looked down at his pants - they looked rather dingy, to him.

"_He's_ not a Lord," she continued, "but I bet his father is. Someone _important_." When she said it, being important sounded like the worst thing you could ever be. "Some stupid, fat lord with more gold than he can count." She looked down at Fat Lip. "You know all lords are fat," she said matter-of-factly.

"Nuh uh." Fat Lip disagreed, shaking his head. "I saw a lord before, at a Tourney. He wasn't fa-"

"Sorry to interrupt," Jerryd said, shuddering. "Do ya' mind?" He glanced down at the dagger still pressed to his throat. Harry, watching Aeryn, had almost forgotten.

"Oh. Sorry." He let the boy go, and passed him a gold dragon - a colossal sum for a boy from Flea Bottom. "For trying," he said, sliding his dagger back into his belt.

"Th-thanks!" he said, voice trembling as he pocketed the coin. He patted his pocket as he walked over to his friends, as if checking to see if the coin was still there. He probably had never even seen a dragon before - most people used coppers in Flea Bottom. "Fat Lip, Mumbly, how would you two like some _real_ food? No more bowls o' brown for us." From their wide, grinning faces, they were all for it. "Aeryn, since she's so _tough_," he spat, "can fend for herself."

_'His name is Mumbly.'_ Harry thought, shaking his head ruefully. _'Well, I was close.'_

"I thought you were Ironborn, like your father?" Aeryn questioned, disappointed.

"I don't even know if he was really Ironborn," Jerryd replied. "S'just what me mum said, but she says dragons are coming back too." He shook his head. "Besides, I can't even fight. 'We do not sow'." He shook his head again. "Bah, what does it even mean? And why should I care anyway, he didn't even give me his name... _any _name." He jabbed the ground with his stick, expression sullen. "_Waters_ is better than nothing."

"Then _take_ a name," Aeryn said vehemently.

Harry admired her fire, but couldn't help but be annoyed by her attitude. The boys were amicable enough, if a bit misguided, but this girl... she was all sour.

"And what is _your_ name, my lady?" he asked, voice dripping with derision.

She turned to him with murder written across her face, brow furrowed in anger, and if he listened closely, he could almost hear her teeth grinding.

"She don't got one neither," Fat Lip said, seemingly oblivious to Aeryn's rage. "Her mum's a who-" Aeryn took two quick steps and slapped him hard across his head. "Ow!" He howled, curling up, bracing for another blow.

"Shut your fat lips, Fat Lip, or I'll make em' fatter!"

Fat Lip, he decided, was quite young, because his eyes teared up and his fat lips quivered.

_'Wait a minute.'_ "Your name is really Fat Lip? I was calling you that in my head, but I never thought..." He trailed off and collapsed into a laughing fit.

After a moment, Jerryd joined him, and Mumbly too, but Aeryn wasn't amused. Fat Lip sniffled, but the tears never fell.

"What's wrong with you?" Harry asked her as he calmed down. "Why don't you like lords? Don't get me wrong, I don't like most of them myself, but," he shrugged, "I can't imagine you have much experience with them." He didn't mean to sound condescending, but from the look on her face, that was how she took his words.

"My mother is a whore," she announced without preamble, her eyes daring him to say something. "Lords visit her every day. And my father was a lord, so I think I know enough." She folded her arms over her chest.

Harry considered her words. "So your name is Waters, then?"

"No," she spat. "My father didn't even bother with that. Just dumped his seed in my mother and went back to Driftmark." Harry could almost taste her bitterness.

_'Driftmark...that's the seat of House Velaryon... I suppose the features match.'_

He was intrigued. He had learned about the noble houses of the Crownlands - Rosby, Rykker, Thorne, Hollard and Blount, the houses sworn to Dragonstone, and all the lesser houses as well. None of them, nor any of the Great Houses, save a very small few, could claim any link to old Valyria and the ancient Valyrian Freehold empire. The Velaryon's could.

_'The name is even the same.'_

"We're the Nameless!" Fat Lip piped up, his woes forgotten. Harry was starting to like the younger boy - he seemed to have a good disposition, despite having tried to rob him. "I know my father though," he said. "Me and Mumbly live wit' our mum and dad in Flea Bottom. He's a cook -"

"He makes bowls o' brown," Jerryd cut in.

" - **and **my mum is a tavern wench," he finished. He pouted at the older boy before turning to Aeryn. "Since we're not robbin' em', can he play with us?"

_'Play?'_ Harry wondered what sort of games smallfolk played. The people of the Kingswood just drank and sang songs, and their children were too awed by his presence to 'rub shoulders'.

"How old are you, Fat Lip?"

"Er..." Fat Lip paused in thought. "Eight?"

"Seven," Mumbly said. "M' eight." He jabbed a thumb into his chest.

"And I just turned three-and-ten," Jerryd said, proud of his age. "I'm almost a man grown. Aeryn is two-and-ten, but she still bosses us around like she's the oldest." He sounded put out about it. "How old - "

"What's _your_ name?" Aeryn asked instead, cutting him off.

Jerryd frowned at her, but said nothing.

She stalked closer, and beneath the grime, Harry could see that yes, she _was_ quite comely.

"My name is Harry," he replied, a smug smile spreading across his face.

Aeryn thumped him on the shoulder.

"You know what I mean," she growled.

Harry sighed. He could have lied, but what purpose would it serve? So long as they kept quiet - he didn't want this getting back to his mother, she _abhored_ his dealings with the smallfolk.

"Prince Harry Baratheon, son of King Robert, the First of His Name," he said with a mocking bow, keeping his voice low. "At your service." He was met with shocked silence.

"Wha -" Aeryn reached over and pulled down his hood , staring into his face. She let out a yelp as she seemed to recognize him. "Green eyes," she said. "Black hair... "

She had seen him before, Harry surmised. Those features alone weren't enough to know his identity.

She stepped away, her whole demeanor changed, eyes wide, shock etched in her features. Her anger was gone. "The prince...he's...he's the prince!" she exclaimed, as if he hadn't just told them. "He's the Pri - " Harry clapped a hand over mouth.

"_You're too loud,_" he whispered fiercely. "I'm going to move my hand now, and you aren't going to say a word, okay?" He nodded as he spoke, goading her into doing the same.

People were watching them now, their attention drawn by Aeryn's outburst, but thankfully they hadn't heard her. He did _not_ fancy being mobbed again. _'They really are like house-elves; a hint of kindness and they fall at your feet.'_ He dropped his hand, scrutinizing her through squinted eyes.

Now that she was closer, he could see that her eyes were not blue, but purple. A very dark purple, but purple nonetheless.

_'Her Valyrian blood is strong,_' he thought. "Your eyes... they're more purple than blue," he said suddenly. "Where is your mother from?"

Aeryn seemed unbalanced, thrown off kilter, her gaze dull and clouded. "What?" she asked stupidly.

"Your eyes," he said again. "They're purple. A really dark purple, but purple nonetheless. I'd thought they were blue. It's a Valyrian trait." He explained. "Purple eyes aren't very common in Westeros, and I was wondering if you inherited your coloring from your father or your mother or both."

"Oh," she muttered.

Her confidence seemed to have abandoned her, replaced with confusion. She didn't seem as distressed though, and for that, Harry was glad. She had been almost hysterical at first.

"She's Lysene," she said finally. "She's dyed her hair blue for so long, I can't remember what color it used to be," she shrugged. "She never speaks much of the man that sired me. Only that he was from Driftmark."

Harry didn't know much about Lys; just that it was one of the Free Cities.

"You're in trouble now, Aeryn." Jerryd taunted, laughter in his voice.

Then he remembered that he had attacked **a prince of Westeros **and he sobered up quickly.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Sorry about attacking you. I didn't know, and -"

Harry waved him off, and Jerryd fell silent. He'd been cutting people off a lot lately. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Just don't do it again."

"Aeryn, you shouldn't be so mean," Fat Lip said. "Or its to the black cells fer' you!" He laughed.

"It's fine," Harry said quickly. The girl was scarily mercurial. "No harm, no foul."

Aeryn maintained her silence. When before she'd stared boldly into his face, now she averted her gaze, seemingly afraid to look him in the eyes.

"Say, Jerryd," he started, turning to the lad. "What did you want to do at the docks?"

"Take my raft up the river, see if I can catch anything. Fat Lip and Mumbly are good hand-fishers, so I take them with me. Bowls o' brown ain't so bad when you know what kind o' meat is in it. Aeryn is our 'captain', even though _I'm_ the best fisher," he said, petulant.

At this the girl seemed to become herself again, and scowled at Jerryd. _'Is that all you do?'_ Harry wondered.

"What?" she said, defensive. "Is what all I do?"

_'Oops. Didn't mean to say that aloud.'_ He stood straighter, his tone challenging.

"Scowl," he said. "You've done nothing but scowl this entire time. You're pretty. You should smile a little."

Her cheeks burned red for a moment before she turned away.

"Let's go guys. There'll be fishing boats all over the harbor and up the river by this time of day. We'll have to head further upriver, or further out in the bay." She started to walk away, but none of the others turned to follow her.

"Will you come, Your Grace?" Fat Lip asked hopefully.

Aeryn slapped him again.

"The King is His Grace, the Prince is just the prince," she said.

"Oh. Well, will you come Prince Harry?" He wasn't the least bit affected.

"Don't call me _Prince_ Harry," he said with a laugh. "Just 'Harry' is fine."

It was an odd start to an even odder friendship. His mother would definitely not approve of them, but he doubted his father would care. Still, he couldn't predict how they would react, what sort of scheme they might devise if he was found out.

"And don't tell anyone about me," he added. He pulled up his hood as he fell into step with them. "Not even your parents," he warned.

"No problem," Jerryd assured him. Fat Lip and Mumbly hastily agreed. Aeryn said nothing, but he noticed her glancing at him, her face conflicted.

"Aeryn?" She sighed, but agreed to his terms. Harry wondered why she was so reluctant.

"We won't tell a soul," Fat Lip vowed.

A flock of birds rose into the air at his words, wings beating with the wind.


	3. Ghosts of the Past

**AN:** Thank you for the reviews, I really appreciate them. The next chapter is the conclusion of the intro "arc".

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter nor Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank The Citadel for the sigils.

* * *

The morning had dawned bright and clear, but by mid-day, dark, grey clouds were gathering in the skies above King's Landing, casting great shadows across the countryside, bringing wind and light rain. Still, the tourney grounds were a sight to behold. Vast and sweeping, they were bracketed by trees of oak, pine, maple and birch, nestled in-between the Blackwater Rush to the south and farmlands to the north. Tents of all colors, shapes and sizes peppered the massive clearing, encircling a strip of land sectioned off for the mêlée and the joust.

Each tent was emblazoned with a sigil - Harry saw the three red chevronels of House Rosby, the black warhammers of House Rykker, the hooded man of the Banefort, the purple lightning of House Dondarrion, and dozens more still, the banners of lords and sers seeking what fame and fortune they could.

As the royal procession made its way to the stands, flanked by Gold Cloaks and trailed by lords and ladies in dazzling brocade jackets and gowns atop prancing palfreys, Harry coaxed Myrcella into a game, to see if she could name the House that each sigil represented.

"And that hanging man there?" he asked, pointing to a sigil.

It was a gruesome sight; a man in black hanging from a rope in a sea of blue.

"That's, umm... House Trant?" Myrcella guessed.

She was as pretty as a pixie, her blond hair done up in ringlets, clothed in crimson sequins. Her gown was a billowy thing, with loose, drooping sleeves adorned with flowery golden patterns.

Harry laughed. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you," she said shortly. "Am I right?"

Harry was silent for a moment, his lips curling in mirth as he watched her twist her fingers into her pony's mane in anticipation.

"Luckily for you, yes," he said finally. "And what of that one there, with the dogs?"

Myrcella was stumped. "I... I don't know Harry. Which house is it?"

"House Clegane," Joffrey said as he rode up, face twisted in a sardonic smile.

He was clad as their sister was, only he wore breeches and a jacket instead of a gown, with a garish brocade overcoat.

"They serve our grandfather, Lord Tywin. _This_ one will serve me." He was delighted, Harry could tell.

Joffrey turned his beady eyes upon his brother. He had to look up - Harry's courser, Flatfoot, was two hands taller than Joffrey's smaller Palfrey.

"You don't have a sworn shield, do you Harry?" He chuckled, a thin, wheezing sound. "I guess you just aren't important enough."

"Harry doesn't _need_ protection," Myrcella said. "The smallfolk love him, and he's good with his sword - Uncle Jaime said so."

Joffrey rounded on Myrcella, but before he could speak, Harry leaned over and gave his horse a hard smack on the arse, and it darted ahead into a throng of lords.

One of them, their great-uncle Kevan Lannister, a balding, portly older man with close cropped blonde beard and soft, round shoulders, who was visiting from Casterly Rock, turned a disapproving eye on Harry. Harry returned his gaze with a mulish stare of his own.

"You'll sit next to me, won't you Harry?" Myrcella said, interrupting the impromptu staring match. "I'd hate to have to sit with Joffrey, he's _horrible_. Maybe Uncle Tyrion can sit with us too?" she asked, hopeful.

"I don't think Mother would allow it," Harry said. "You know how she gets sometimes. Mayhaps Renly can sit with us instead."

"Oh well, that's fine I guess."

The smallfolk cheered as they rode past. King Robert, awash in loose navy fittings, raised his flask to salute the crowd and they returned it in kind, their wooden goblets and bowls overflowing with wine and ale.

The crowd was raucous, hooting and stomping and jeering. They didn't settle down until the procession had taken its place in the stands opposite the smallfolk, a towering behemoth of solid wooden planks overlooking the tourney grounds.

The stands were fitted with chairs beseeming the ranks and titles of the men and women who'd attached themselves to the royal retinue, carefully carved oak polished to a gleam. Most every lord and lady of the Crownlands were in attendance, as well as a handful from the Stormlands and the Westerlands as well. Even the frail Lysa Arryn had come down from the Tower of the Hand for the tourney, though Harry suspected that it had taken _much_ persuasion from Jon. As far as he knew, she hadn't left the tower since their babe, Robert, had been born.

Someone blew a horn - a loud, clear, ringing note, signaling the official start of the Tourney. There was a herald, but as he prepared to speak, Cersei, from her seat beside the King, silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"Why don't we let Harry speak to the people?" she asked Robert, a few loose curls hanging from the complex braids holding her hair up. "It's _his_ nameday celebration, and I quite think they'd like to hear from their beloved prince. They hear from your herald often enough." She smiled tightly, her sparkling scarlet gown reflected in her brilliant green eyes.

Robert considered her proposal for a moment, and turned to Harry.

"Go on then boy, speak to the people."

Harry frowned at the King, just a slight furrowing of his brow, childishly hanging on to his anger at the incident with Pate months before. He thought it an injustice to Pate to just let the memory fade, but it was too hard to hold a grudge when Pate had already forgiven the both of them.

"It's my job," he had told Harry, his back still bruised. "I'm a _whipping_ boy... just try not to get into any more trouble, yeah?"

Pate was more a brother to him than Joffrey, and he had done as he asked, despite his inclinations to ignore his minders.

Remembering that, he graced his father with a very small smile, more a twitch than anything. As he rose to stand, one hand braced on the railings, the crowd fell quiet, waiting silently with bated breath. He brushed invisible dirt from the front of his black, skirted doublet, willing his nerves to settle. He remembered giving speeches in his life before, but only barely, the clarity of the memories shadowed by hazy fog.

Spells, he could remember. People too, but their faces and features moreso than their names. His dreams granted the memories definition, made them tangible, and when he slept, he sometimes forgot he was Harry Baratheon, son of the King, Prince of Westeros. At those times, late in the night when the castle was quiet, or in the twilight hours of the morning just before he awoke, he was just Harry, a wizard who'd helped reshape a world, who'd mastered death, and who loved with a fierceness that was almost frightening. He couldn't feel it, but he could _see_ it, in his actions.

That was what connected them, he thought. That love.

Someone to his left passed him a tapered, open-ended cone-shaped instrument lacquered with black and gold.

"It's a speaking trumpet, it'll amplify your voice," a voice said.

He gave his thanks to the black and grey-clothed Baelish with a brief smile more reminiscent of a grimace, and gave more sincere thanks to the herald for allowing him use of the trumpet. Harry didn't much like Petyr Baelish. The Master-of-Coin was a sneaky sort, with shifty gray-green eyes set beneath a shock of black hair peppered with gray.

Harry fumbled for a moment, seemingly at a loss for what to say when he spotted Aeryn in the crowd. He could barely see her, sandwiched between two burly men, but her hair stood out, the silver and gold locks a stark contrast to the brown and black heads around her. He saw Jerryd a ways down, leaning halfway over the rail separating the field and the smallfolk, and then he knew exactly what message he wanted to convey. He put the smaller end of the device up to his lips, and spoke.

"My good friends," he began, licking his dry lips. He smiled sheepishly as the people roared. "People of King's Landing... you were told that the purpose of this tourney was to honor my nameday - I am here to tell you that it is not."

The crowd slowly grew silent, bewildered by his declaration.

"Instead," he continued, "we honor **you**, the fishermen and the tanners, the merchants and the bakers, the inn keepers and the tavern wenches and farmers and masons alike... all of you!" He fell silent as the crowd rose again into a roar, the cheers so loud the stands shook.

"I am proud to be your Prince, proud that I can count you amongst my friends, and I hope to one day be able to serve you as you have all served me. Thank you, and let the tourney commence!"

As he returned to his seat amidst the _hoorahs _and the _hurrays_, Tyrion, clad in maroon and gold, sitting propped up in the row behind him, applauded his speech.

"Glad to see that _someone_ has absorbed my considerable oratory skill. I'd thought you a lost cause - you are, after all, save for sweet Myrcella here, _surrounded_ by dimwits."

Harry went to pass the speaking trumpet back to Baelish, but he waved him off.

"Keep it, my prince - you'll need it to give the command to start the match."

Baelish was always polite and unfailingly subservient, but Harry didn't like him - there was something _off_ about him, a subtle, chilling insincerity, hidden behind his grey-green eyes, and Harry could see it just as plainly as the sun on a clear day.

The herald blew his horn once more - a longer, lower note, and then the knights on their mighty horses galloped into the fighting ring.

The wealthiest of them were resplendent in glittering jeweled plate astride destriers. Others were more plainly armored in unadorned plate astride palfreys, and others still, hardy looking men in mismatched mail and scale armor, rode rounseys. He recognized the heavy-set Thoros and his magnificent red mare, and the young Lord Beric Dondarrion in his brilliant black armor, sword polished to a shine so bright that for a brief second, Harry thought it goblin's silver.

Myrcella tugged at his arm and he averted his gaze to glare at his sister.

"Where did you learn to speak like that Harry?" she asked, unperturbed.

Harry shrugged, his face softening. "Here and there," he said. "More there than here."

At his side, Renly, in glittering green armor, laughed a great booming clap that was almost startling, it was so loud.

"_Harry!_" she complained, petulant, but he said no more.

The mêlée was first. The men lined up across from each other in the field, fifteen on either side - he saw Thoros on the far end, and Lord Beric nearest the stands, and a massive man in plain plate, the sigil of House Clegane etched across the escutcheon strapped to his arm. He was even taller than the king.

_'That must be the man who'll serve Joffrey,'_ Harry thought. _'I pity him already.'_

He wore a dog helm, a truly artful thing, and he wasn't the only one with a fanciful helm - he saw one man with jagged horns like a devil fitted atop his greathelm, and another in a pointed barbute with eyes chiseled into the back and the sides. The clamor from the smallfolk was loud, but the royal stands were close enough to the ring that Harry could still hear the horses as they brayed, the clatter of their hooves as they stomped the ground.

"Begin!" he shouted into the trumpet, and settled into his seat to watch the spectacle.

At his shout, the men sprung into action, kicking their horses to charge this way and that, every man fighting for himself. Thoros swiped his hand down his blade and a great flame roared to life, encasing the steel in bright, burning fire.

Harry recalled Ser Aron warning the priest that Tobho Mott, the best blacksmith in King's Landing, wouldn't make him any more swords if he kept ruining them with fire. Harry rather thought that so long as Thoros had the coin, Tobho would make him anything he wanted.

Thoros's flaming sword spooked the other horses, and as the men wheeled away from him he pushed into their backs, driving them to the other side of the ring and into the great throng gathered there. Lord Beric, despite his youth, was quite talented, and Harry could tell that the man had improved since he'd last seen him in a tourney. The young lord turned left and right, his sword flashing like the lightning of his sigil, and men fell in his wake. Their swords clanged like ringing bells, and Harry watched with rapt attention as the dog-helmed Clegane swung his sword into a man and knocked him clean from his horse, then whirled around and with three deft strokes unhorsed another knight with frightening ease.

"Who is that man?" he said to no one in particular. Renly answered him.

"Which one?"

He had been dozing off. Harry could tell because he had snapped up as if startled when Harry spoke.

"With the dog helm - the big one who just unhorsed Ser Robar."

"Ahhhh... that, my young friend, is Sandor Clegane." Renly took a sip from his goblet.

"Not _Ser _Sandor?" Harry questioned.

"Not to my knowledge, no. I think it has something to do with his brother," his uncle replied. "If I recall correctly, Ser Kevan said that they share a 'mutual hatred' for one another - said that Lord Tywin, to keep them from killing each other, sent Sandor here to serve Joffrey." He gave the man an appraising look. "He's certainly skilled enough to be a knight."

Sandor pulled a man from his reins with his bare-hand, then wheeled around kicked his horse into a gallop to run him down.

"And brutal."

"Yeah..." Harry trailed off. "Joffrey mentioned a Clegane was to be his sworn shield. Is the brother here?"

Renly laughed. "His brother is the 'Mountain that Rides', you would notice his presence."

"...oh."

Harry had never learned the name of the knight they called the Mountain; he had never inquired. It hadn't come up in his lessons, and neither Jaime nor Tyrion spoke often of the bannermen sworn to Lord Tywin's service. In fact, they rarely spoke of the Westerlands and their father at all.

"Does this one have a moniker as well? Do they call him a mountain too?"

He felt a weight on his arm and looked down to see Myrcella leaning against him, her face pressed against his shoulder. _'What the...'_ He looked back to the field and saw what had caused her such distress - Thoros had disarmed a man, literally, his fiery sword shearing right through his elbow. It was a gruesome sight for sure, but not as bloody as it could've been if not for the fire - the flames cauterized some of the wound, making the air stink of burned flesh.

Harry winced, nose curling in disgust. It truly _stank._ The man's screams were swallowed by the clamor of the crowd and the clash of steel, and he watched with a sort of detached interest as the knight was pulled from the ring by a pair of Maesters, his horrid stump of an arm flailing wildly, the skin blistered and blackened.

"Compared to his brother," Renly began, and Harry's attention was snatched away from the unlucky knight, "Sandor is more hill than mountain." He leaned close to Harry, and his tone grew foreboding. "Pray that you never come across Ser Gregor Clegane, Harry, not without a full retinue of guards at your back. I've heard stories of him, and none good."

"Stories?" Harry inquired.

_'What kind of man could warrant such a warning?'_ He frowned when Renly ruffled his hair, smacking his uncle's hand away.

"Mayhaps another time... Myrcella needn't hear such things."

When he looked back to the mêlée, Lord Beric had already yielded and left the field, leaving Sandor, Thoros, and a handful of other men, most of them the wealthy knights in bejeweled plate. Sandor, he noticed, stayed well clear of Thoros and his sword. Harry couldn't understand why - he was just as skilled, if not more so, and surely such a fearsome man wasn't afraid of a little fire? But it seemed he was, as he turned his back to Thoros and rode down the others, taking them one by one until only he and the Red Priest were left. Harry stood, anticipating a great battle, but then Sandor yielded without even trading a blow, and it was all he could do to keep in a petulant groan of disappointment. _'What in the bloody hell was that?'_

"Harry, announce the match," Tyrion said. "You _do_ still have the trumpet?"

Harry ignored his uncle's tone - he was _always _joking - and announced the winner. "Thoros of Myr! Congratulations on a battle well fought - I think the purse may just about cover your drinking tab."

Thoros was one of the few people he knew who could drink as much as his father.

The man laughed at that, joined in his mirth by all the men and women who knew of the priest and his habits.

"And maybe a few whores as well, eh?" the priest replied with a chuckle, thumping his fist to his chest in salute to Robert.

He thrust his sword into the air, still flaming, and the crowd erupted in cheers. The royal ovation was far more subdued - Lord Rosby did not clap at all, and his mother looked down upon Thoros with disdain marring her features, her lips pressed in a thin line.

She had never liked Thoros.

The joust was the next event, to take place after a brief intermission, but despite the prestige of the event and the larger purse involved, Harry found himself rather bored with the affair. It took skill to joust, that he knew, but it wasn't as thrilling as the mêlée, wasn't as _dangerous_. There was something artificial about the jousts, a lacking agent that robbed the event of its excitement - he had never studied a war where men traded blows with the lance; swords, yes, and spears and halberds and bows, but no lances. A cavalry charge with steel-tipped lances was one thing, but the joust? He would rather retire to his chambers to read.

_'Maybe I'll feel differently if I ever enter the tilts myself.'_

He looked across the field, and he saw Sandor walking towards his tent, pulling his big black horse behind him, the Clegane crest broad across his cloak. And he saw the ghost of a lady following him, thick, wavy black hair spilling across her back, and even from where he sat he could make out the dark red discoloration in her gown.

She was _covered_ in blood.

* * *

They feasted with their guests that night.

Servants had set up a table in the center of the Great Hall between the massive columns on either side of the lush red carpet, a great hunk of smoothly polished oak engraved with stags ambling through open forests. The table was big enough to seat a hundred bodies, but there weren't even half that many people present. They had set ornate candelabra around the table, gilded, golden constructs from the Westerlands, inlaid with rubies as red as blood.

Harry still sat with his sister, between her and Joffrey at the head of the table, beside their mother and father. The other Lords were assembled according to their status, his mother had told him, with the men most in his father's favor the closest and the 'simpering fools looking to ingratiate themselves with the royal family' furthest away. Renly sat on the other side of the King, and Kevan sat beside him, but Robert served Stannis a slight by sitting him further down the table, between the sickly Lord Rosby and Lord Beric, when his rightful place should've been with Renly.

Harry wondered at that, why his father never failed to belittle his brother. For all his stalwart ways, Stannis was a fair man, dedicated to his duties. As rigid as a cast-iron sword and as prickly as one too, but fair nonetheless, and deserving of _some _sort of recognition - more than he recieved, at any rate.

If not for Lord Jon and Stannis, the Seven Kingdoms would've fallen apart; couldn't his father see that?

Servants wheeled out half-a-hundred trays of food, the savory scents wafting through the open hall; Harry could almost taste the almond crusted trout, and his mouth began to water. There was trout wrapped in bacon too, and rabbit stewed in garlic and onions, and quails literally drowned in butter, speckled with peppers. His father had asked for a northern dish - beef and bacon pie with grilled lambs and herbs - and as Harry bit into the pie, he could almost be content, sitting amongst family sharing a meal with friends.

But that, he knew, was just an illusion. There were too many secrets in the Keep, and he was determined to figure them out.

After the main course the servants brought out blueberry tarts and sweet lemon cakes, and the men drunk more and more Arbor Gold till their cheeks were flushed and their eyes drooped. King Robert wasn't as effected, but Stannis and Kevan had barely touched their cups, save to sip water. There was little talking amongst the nobles, so Harry was quite surprised when Kevan addressed the King. He had expected the meal to pass in relative silence, as the more boisterous courtiers sat way at the far end of the table.

"Your Grace," he began. "Have you put further thought to my proposal?"

The King said nothing at first, instead taking a long swig from his jewel-encrusted goblet. "I've thought on it," he said shortly. "And I've not decided yet; it would make more sense to send him to Highgarden."

Harry snapped up at that, his trout forgotten. _'Wait, what? Send who?'_

Cersei, who'd been silent, scowled at the proclamation. "Highgarden?" she questioned, voice wet with contempt. It was clear what she thought of the roses of the Reach. "I thought you wanted to foster him in Winterfell?" Her tone was only slightly less contemptuous. She had no love for the north either. His mother was a Westerlands woman through and through, that much was certain. Harry admired her pride in her home, but sometimes her haughtiness annoyed him to no end.

_'What in the bloody hell are they talking about?'_ Dread built in his chest. Heirs to the throne weren't in the practice of being sent to foster. A spare though?

At 'Winterfell', Stannis ground his teeth, and his expression, already turned up in disgust, soured further. From what he had learned, Stannis was no fan of Ned Stark - something to do with the Siege of Storm's End during the Rebellion.

He couldn't remember exactly what - he had only heard bits and pieces of the story, and even then in passing. He had heard much about the other battles of the Rebellion, from his father and Lord Arryn, about the Battle of the Trident, and the Battle of the Bells, and once from Jaime about the Sack of King's Landing, but Stannis had never spoken of that seige; not even once.

"That I did," Robert said. "But the Imp put up a convincing argument in favor of the Tyrells."

His mother gave Tyrion a sharp look, but his uncle paid her no attention.

"They've a daughter not much older than he is," his father continued. "He can foster there, they can get married..." He waved his arms, spilling a bit of wine from his cup. "It'd be a perfect match, and draw the Tyrells into the fold."

Harry wasn't quite sure what to think. He relished the opportunity to see more of Westeros, but he doubted he would have the freedom he had in King's Landing. His parents were more than a little negligent. Nor did he want to be married - not yet, anyway.

"True, but he needn't foster in Highgarden to be matched with the Tyrell girl," Kevan explained.

"And do you really want him under _Mace Tyrell's_ tutelage?" Cersei cut in, her tone revealing her low opinion of the Warden of the Reach.

"Why not Dorne?" Renly said. "I'm sure Prince Doran would be happy to have him." He wasn't truly invested in the conversation, speaking only for proprieties sake.

Stannis scoffed at Renly's suggestion, but said nothing.

"I am **not** sending my son to Dorne," his mother returned, steel in her eyes.

"No, not Dorne," Lord Arryn said. "They may have bent the knee, but they haven't forgotten the past. I am in favor of Winterfell."

"Since no one knows where they want to send **me," **Harry interrupted. "Maybe you could just ask where I'd like to go?"

They looked as if they'd forgotten he was there, forgotten how impertinent he could be. Myrcella, not as shocked at his cheek, kicked him under the table, a warning written on her face. Robert started to laugh first, and was joined by Renly and even the old Lord Jon. His mother, however, just gave him this long, sharp stare, her eyes searching his face. He didn't know what she was looking for.

"Good lad," the King said, glancing at him. "But you've no say in this boy." Then he addressed his 'council'. "Unfortunately, I don't think Winterfell would work either." He looked back at Harry then, though he still spoke to the adults. "He's an annoying little shite, more man than he has any right to be, and Ned has enough children to look after. I wouldn't want to saddle him with another."

"Why not Storm's End?"

It was Renly again, and Harry found he didn't mind the thought of spending the rest of his youth in the lands of his ancestors.

"A good suggestion," Ser Kevan admitted. "But _you_ are the Lord of Storm's End, Harry can never hold those lands... however, if he proves capable..." He sat forward, weighing his words carefully. "Lord Tywin hopes to name him his heir. With your consent of course, Your Grace," he added hastily.

Down the table, Tyrion appeared gobsmacked, mouth and eyes wide, but as the seconds passed his misshapen face began to twist in anger. Harry felt bad for his uncle - he knew that Lord Tywin had no love for his youngest child, had heard it from Tyrion himself, but taking his inheritance? It was cruel.

"Heir to Casterly Rock, eh?" Robert regarded Ser Kevan with a shrewd eye. "_If_ he proves capable? Oh, he's capable alright. He'll drive Lord Tywin insane."

Harry glared at his father, and Myrcella let out a little giggle. Joffrey had barely spoken during the entire meal, and when Harry glanced at him now, he was jabbing his knife into the remains of his quail, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Harry thought he looked rather mad.

"Be that as it may, Lord Tywin would still like to have him. He could shape Harry into a great man," Kevan said.

_"After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great,"_ a voice from his past whispered in his ear.

If Harry thought hard enough, he could just see Garrick standing beside Kevan, could almost smell the scent of wand wood and polish. Garrick Ollivander had become a friend and mentor after Hogwarts, but even after death, Harry could still recall that first, chilling meeting when he had uttered those words.

_Terrible, yes, but great. _He hadn't been prepared to be great, not then - he had been a scared eleven year old boy who had wanted nothing more than to be accepted, wanted nothing more than a family. But he wasn't that person anymore; he wasn't Harry Potter, not exactly. He had family now, and as he looked down at Myrcella frowning into her plate, he came to a realization.

If Joffrey was to be King, the highest authority in the land, then Westeros would need someone great, to temper his madness, to weather his insanity. _'And maybe even terrible too.'_

Because Joffrey would be cowed by nothing less.

"I would foster at Casterly Rock, if my father permits," he announced suddenly, glancing at his father. His mother beamed at him then, a truly dazzling smile, and Harry wished she would smile more.

The King ignored him, but Ser Kevan regarded him with an appraising eye.

"I'll think on it further, Ser Kevan," Robert said. "But in the meantime," and he slammed his cup down with a thunk, "more wine!"

"Wait just one moment, if you will," Tyrion called from down the table.

His father looked at him as one might look at a bug, but Tyrion was not moved.

"_I _am the rightful heir to Casterly Rock. **Me**. Has my father forgotten that in his old age? Has senility finally gripped him in its fist?"

He stood up in his chair, wobbling just slightly, and stared his uncle down.

"What did you say, Ser Kevan, when my father sent you here to rob me of what is rightfully mine?" Tyrion was already ugly, but the frown on his face transformed him into something terrible.

His mother, he saw, enjoyed Tyrion's distress, but Harry just felt sick inside. It wasn't his fault, what was being done to Tyrion, but he couldn't help but feel partially responsible.

_'Don't worry uncle,'_ he wanted to say. _'If I am to be heir of Casterly Rock, you'll want for nothing.'_

Ser Kevan looked slightly ashamed, but he met Tyrion's eyes when he spoke, and his words were sincere. "I told him that it was wrong to rob you of your inheritance... but that I would see his will done."

"Of _course_ you did," Tyrion spat. "Ever the yes man, aren't you uncle?" He sat and said no more, speaking only to call for more wine.

The Mad King chose that moment to appear, popping his head through King Robert's chest. He was a pitiful sight, as skinny as a twig, with loose, sagging skin, long, limp hair, sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. Death had not been kind to him.

Aerys looked left and right, his ghostly visage twisted in a grimace. Then he caught Harry's eye and winked.

"You want to know how to hatch dragon's boy?!"

He cackled and broke out into song. He reminded Harry of Peeves, the little that he could remember of him. Aerys was a wretched thing, but Harry could find no pity in his heart for the Mad King.

"Burn, burn, burn them all! Burn the wall, burn the halls! Burn the Vault! Burn the Keep! Burn them, burn them, in their sleep!"

Harry wondered how Ser Barristan could've served such a creature. He was _beyond_ vile. Every man in Westeros regarded Ser Jaime as Kingslayer, a disgraceful oath breaker... but in Harry's eyes, he was a hero. What good were oaths made to a madman?

What honor was there in serving evil?

* * *

Harry snuck out that night and all the following nights, for eight days straight. The King had taken Ser Kevan and the other Lords hunting the day after the Tourney, and they had yet to return, leaving Harry to his own devices, with no Kevan to watch him and no Stannis to berate him for his transgressions. Lord Jon stayed in the capital, but was so busy with his duties he had no time to mind Harry.

He went out during the day as well, with as few guards as he could manage, riding along the twisting Street of Steel to the Great Sept, a majestic domed structure of gleaming marble and crystal towers atop Visenya's Hill. Small crowds of commoners would gather in his wake, the old and the young, the enfeebled and the healthy, and he passed out coin - just coppers and silvers - for foodstuffs and clothing and poultices, and whatever else they might need.

When they came to kneel at his feet he would help them stand, when they shied away from his gaze he would look them in the eye, and when they reached out to touch him he would clasp their hands, smiling all the while. The mob was far more docile than the one that had claimed him on his nameday - _they _had grabbed him and lifted him into the air, and carried him down Shadowblack Lane to the Street of Seeds, cheering all the while.

They really _were_ like house elves, like sheep, overjoyed at the slightest attention or praise, and he would hear them brag to their friends that they had walked with the prince, had shared coin with him. He prayed with them in the gardens of the Sept, in the shadow of the mighty statue of Baelor, even though he didn't believe in the Seven.

He believed in the Stranger though. He had felt her embrace, as dark as the blackest night, had tasted the oily nothingness of nonexistence, had fallen asleep in her arms a wizard and woken a prince.

At night he ran the streets with the 'Nameless', relishing his freedom - his mother had warned him that Lord Tywin wouldn't abide such actions, and advised him to enjoy it while he could, contradicting what he had expected her to say. He had thought she would forbid him from sneaking out of the castle, lock him up in his chambers with a retinue of guards and cull all his privileges, but she hadn't.

"You'll be Prince of the Iron Throne and Warden of the West," she had said, proud but sad.

She didn't hold him, or brush his hair - just stared, looking _through_ him, seeing someone else in the curve of his jaw and the slope of his nose.

"It's not my place to command you... only _advise_." She had sounded bitter.

Somehow she had learned the areas he frequented with his friends, and had increased the number of Gold Cloaks patrolling the streets in those locales, since he would take none himself, and made him promise to always be cautious, even amongst friends, and to _always_ carry a dagger.

He had taken to carrying two.

Most days they sailed Jerryd's rickety little raft down the Blackwater - despite its age and appearance it was a hardy, well balanced vessel - but they caught no fish so close to the quay, and instead watched the clouds sailing overhead as they sailed the waters below. Once they had shared hot pies on the Street of Flour - there had been a plump, fair-haired boy pushing a cart of them down the street - and sampled cakes and muffins from most every bakery along the way. With their stomachs fat, Aeryn, to Jerryd's great delight, had given them a tour of the Street of Silk on the other side of Rhaenys's Hill near the Dragon Gate. Some of the whores had recognized him though, had seen him wandering the halls of the Keep, and teased that if his father and uncle were any indication, he would be visiting them soon enough. He had wondered, absently, if there was a whore in King's Landing his father or his uncle hadn't bedded.

He had said as much to one, a beautiful black haired woman in a dazzling gown, and she had laughed and laughed and laughed, her chortles following them as they turned down Coppersmith's Wynd where copper workers sold their wares - jars and jugs and trays, plates, cookware, and even jewelry, all made of finely polished copper. Jerryd had enough coin left from the dragon Harry had given him that he bought them all copper bands to fit their wrists.

"To signify our brotherhood," he had said, coin purse still ladened with silvers. A single dragon went a _long _way for a boy like Jerryd.

Aeryn had given her patented glare at his declaration, and he was quick to amend.

"And sister, er...hood? Sister to the brotherhood? Sister-in-arms?" He shrugged, stumped, and looked to Harry for help. He found none though - only a Prince laughing at his misfortune.

Aeryn, he had noticed, had taken to rouging her lips, and her hair was never as dirty as it had been that first fateful night. She gave him _looks_, long and searching, and she was always nearby, always close, no matter where they went or what they did. It was a far cry from their first meeting, when she had been reluctant to even look at him. He wondered, as he oft did, why she reacted the way she had, but he never asked.

He was a bit uncomfortable with her attention, and her _intentions_, but he weathered them all the same, and tried not to treat her any differently than he treated Jerryd, or Fat Lip, or Mumbly.

For the first time in a while, Harry was truly happy, despite his uncertain future. He had even brought Pate on a few of his excursions, delighted that he could bring some joy to the whipping boy's life. He still felt bad about what had happened; he would probably always feel bad, and he would never forget the lessons he learned that day. He had forgiven his father, and even Joffrey didn't bother him now that he had Sandor to entertain himself with.

He should have known his happiness wouldn't last. There were too many secrets in the Red Keep - he had told himself that already - too many lies, too much ambition veiled behind veneers of docility. Too much hatred, and too much _betrayal_.

After a long day of training and lessons and meandering the city, Harry returned home to a quiet castle, creeping through dark tunnels and dimly lit corridors. Somewhere along the way Maegor found him, a large bull of a man clad in the black armor he had died in. He had the Targaryen look, his hair and beard trimmed close, but the color had been dulled by death, more silver than blond.

He descended to the bowels of the Keep, followed the winding, arched paths of the cellars, trailing his fingers along the dragon bones in the darkened hall, Maegor at his back. He held sparkling blue flames in his other hand to serve as a torch, lighting the way through the empty, dank halls.

The old Targaryen King _hated _Harry, hated everyone really, but he was intrigued by his talents, and would watch in rapt silence as Harry made swords and daggers dance in the air, or switched items from one place to the next in the blink of an eye.

In the centuries since his death, no living man had ever seen Maegor, and the ancient king never witnessed sorcery capable of what Harry could do. There was no sacrifice involved - nothing to slaughter, no special herbs to burn, no tonics to drink. No blood, and no fire. He had thought that Harry was some sort of hellspawn, as no man he knew of could work magic without sacrifice, and had told him so, but that didn't stop his visits - in fact, the ancient ghost bothered him _more_ after he'd had his epiphany, had finally deigned to speak with the 'whoreson' and share his counsel. Never mind that his counsel was always the same:

"Be vigilant, and kill any who oppose you."

Harry only tolerated him because he had shared the secrets of the keep, but in truth, there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the ghost. Not without a wand. Maegor wanted Harry to use his magic to restore the Targaryen reign, to honor his ancestors, and had started referring to Harry as 'bastard spawn'; said that as a scion of the treacherous House Baratheon and a descendant of his 'bastard uncle' Orys, he could aspire for no greater title.

Thankfully, the ancient ghost was quiet now, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

He had seen the mysterious woman thrice more now, but only when the Clegane was around. She never spoke, never looked anywhere but at Sandor, and doggedly hounded his steps wherever he went. When he asked Maegor about her he had said that the 'Martell bitch' and her screaming whelp kept to the the lower levels of the keep and stayed well clear of the other ghosts. There was only one Martell he knew of who could be the secretive ghost. _'The Lady Elia Martell, wife of Prince Rhaegar.'_

So he searched for her when he could, far too curious to let the matter lie. He wanted to know the _truth_, the truth that no one spoke of, that no one thought about. He knew something of her story, of the horror that had befalllen her and her family. He knew that she and her children had been killed to secure his father's place on the throne, but that was it. He knew not the details of their deaths, nor exactly _who_ had done the deed. He assumed that the Clegane had been involved.

_She_ was what Dorne hadn't forgotten, and since seeing her for the first time, Harry didn't think he'd ever forget her either. She was small and frail looking, but hauntingly beautiful, and there was steel in her eyes when she looked at Sandor, a promise of _murder_ and _pain_.

_'And the Clegane's are Lannister men...'_

"Maegor, what do you know of Tywin Lannister?" he asked as they passed through an arched doorway, turning down another dank corridor, dragon skeletons propped against the wall. He knew Tywin as a stern, proud, quiet man, not given to flights of fancy and utterly scornful of ineptitude. He wondered how others thought of him.

"I know he needs to _burn,_" Maegor growled. "All of you need to burn."

Harry shook his head, exasperated. Why did he even bother? "Go away Maegor. All you Targaryens think about is fire. Go bother Rhaenyra, I'm sure she'd be _delighted_ to see you."

Rhaenyra was one of the few ghosts who stood up to the brutish Maegor. She had little respect for her ancestor; he had been killed by the Iron Throne itself, pricked by a poisoned blade, and she had been swallowed by a dragon, and by her _brother's _dragon at that. Amongst the ghosts and their macabre culture, her gloriously brutal death gave her bragging rights, gave her status, and she never hesitated to remind Maegor of his pitiful end. She never spoke to Harry though, never acknowledged him at all, and he was glad of it.

She had been burned horrifically, her face charred, one eye blackened by fire, the other burned through completely. The heat of the dragon's stomach had fused her lips to her teeth, and there were gaping holes in her torso, where flames and acid had eaten away at her skin and innards.

It pained him to look at her; he would never wish such a fate on _anyone, _not even his greatest enemy, and to know that it was her own brother who had sentenced her to that fate... it was sickening.

_'Better a sword through the heart than to be swallowed alive by a dragon.'_

"Don't speak to me of that woman!" Maegor raged. "She was no dragon, just a bitch playing at one. And I've seen you set fire to a lot of things, bastard spawn. There's a little Targaryen blood in you, bastard blood, but Targaryen nonetheless." He leaned closer to Harry. "Can't you feel it , that fire in your veins? Give yourself to the flames boy, I'll make a dragon of you yet."

Harry ignored him, eyes riveted to the hall ahead. There was a torch at the very end of the hall at an intersection, the flame dim and dying, but for a moment he had seen a flicker of silver in the shadow of the torchlight.

_'Is that her?'_ He saw it again, a sliver of silver light, a thin wisp of a hazy silhouette, and he broke out into a run.

"Wait!" he shouted, voice echoing through the halls. "Wait up!"

He didn't know _what_ drove him to seek out the ghost. Her story, he knew, was a tragic one... but _something_ moved him, something demanded he discover the truth. His footsteps echoed just as loudly as his voice, and he wished he had worn his soft-soled boots instead of the ones he had on. The sound was so loud in the dead silence of the cellars that he was certain he could be heard on the floors above.

He rounded the corner and saw her, and announced himself with a tentative, "My lady?"

But it wasn't Elia Martell - the ghost was too short, too small; she was the size of a small child.

"Rhaenys," he breathed, his voice so soft he barely heard himself speak. _'I've never seen a child ghost before,'_ he thought, and he felt a great sorrow rise up in his chest.

He hadn't realized how it would effect him, seeing a child ghost, a soul so broken and tortured it had turned its back on eternity. He knew of death, knew its secrets, and to think that her soul would never go to the other side, would always be trapped amongst men, in the realm of the living...

It was distressing, and he found himself sniffling, his vision blurred with unshed tears. Death had been a release, a freedom that living men could only dream of, _the last great adventure_. Rhaenys would never know that freedom, would never know peace.

The girl was small - smaller even than Myrcella, with black hair to match her mother's, clad in a man's nightshirt covered in blood.

_'A lot of blood'_, he thought, bile rising in his throat; more blood than on her mother's gown.

There were dozens of cuts in the shirt, all across her back, some so close they just looked like one big gash. _'There's at least... half-a-hundred of them,'_ he thought, disgusted. Stabbed fifty times? That was torture... surely his father hadn't been privy to _this_?

"Hey," he started, reaching out, forgetting that ghosts were incorporeal. "Rhaenys?"

The girl turned around slowly, and his breath caught in his throat at the look on her face, the blue flames dying in his palm. Her wide eyes were shadowed with horrible misery, her chubby cheeks marred by cuts, just like her shirt, jagged slits and ripped flesh stained red. He could even see her teeth through one of the gaping wounds.

_'Who... who did this?'_ he thought, horrified. His stomach turned, roiling in his gut, and the taste of bile grew stronger, but he didn't vomit. He _wouldn't_ vomit - he refused to show that weakness.

His father had done this. **His father**. Maybe he hadn't held the knife, but this girl had died so his father could sit on the throne. So his father could be King.

The disgust he felt morphed into something else, a fury unlike any he had known, hot and burning, boiling his blood. He could hear his teeth grinding, feel the tightening in his jaws, but he was oddly removed from it all, like he was watching someone else, like he was dreaming.

He wished he was dreaming.

"Best leave, bastard spawn," Maegor said. "This one's a screamer."

He paid Maegor no mind, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Rhaenys, are you - "

But before he could finish, the little dragon princess opened her mouth and **screamed**.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, without pause, an unceasing and unrelenting cacophony of terror and agony. It cut him to the core; he felt it as a sharp pain in his chest, like a knife to the heart, stabbing and _twisting_. Her tortured screams surrounded him, deafened him, _suffocated_ him - the room was spinning, the torchlight was dimming and it was _cold,_ so cold he could see his breath, so cold he was shivering, and _he had to get away._

He clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn't help - the screams just got louder and louder and louder until he couldn't hear himself think, until it felt as if his head was about to explode, and his own scream joined hers, a sharp shout of disbelief drowning under the waves of her anguished wails.

He turned and ran, ran as if the hounds of hell were at his back, ran as if his life depended on it, ran and ran and ran, trying in vain to escape the screams. He ran past startled maidservants working late into the night, past half-sleep guards standing post outside oaken doors, and _still_ the screams followed him, hung to his shoulders and nipped at his heels.

They followed him all the way to his chambers, and when he finally crashed, physically and emotionally exhausted, they crept into his sleep, haunting his dreams.


	4. Words on the Wind

**AN**: Thank you for your reviews. I appreciate your sentiments. Last chapter I said this was the conclusion to this arc - well, I lied. I'd hoped to fit everything in this chapter, but alas, I could not.

I'd like to give thanks for Jarik for his help with this chapter, and Albert Camus for a nice quote. And HBO for not giving Daario that stupid fucking beard.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire

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When Harry dreamt of his life before, saw the deeds of his far gone past manifest before his eyes, there was a glaring lack of _something_. Something visceral. He saw the faces, knew the names, remembered birthdays and funerals, witnessed years spent with family and days spent at war... but the emotion was gone, so muted as to be nonexistent. The attachment to them, the thread that tied him to those places and people and events... it had been snipped. Cut by death.

He was left with the most vivid portrait ever painted. Each sweeping brush stroke told a different story, some faded, others so bright and colorful they were blinding. The painting evoked emotion, inspired pride and joy and anger and hatred; fear even, in the face of cold, black robed fiends and hordes of man-eating beasts... but was that what he had felt _during_ the events?

He didn't know. Had he been afraid? Angry? All the Prince saw was victory. Triumph. Glory. _Destiny._

He rose with the sun the next morning after a rough, fitful sleep. He had dreamed of the Chamber again.

_Torchlight illuminated his path, but the flames burned green, not orange, casting an eerie glow across the expansive cavern. The stone walkway was slick with grime and blackened by centuries of dust. Pools of water, as black as the night sky, formed moats on either side of the aisle. Craggy stalactites hung from the roof of the cavern, like the jagged, gaping maw of an unearthly beast._

_He trekked further into the Chamber and came upon Ginny's limp, lifeless body, her red hair strewn across the floor. He felt sad when he looked upon her, and as he knelt and rolled her to her back, he felt fear grip him._

_This wasn't Ginny. It was **Rhaenys**._

_"Save me," she demanded. "Save me."_

For the first time he felt terror in the face of the basilisk, feared for her life and his own. In the dream, the basilisk sprouted wings, grew massive, muscled legs, and morphed into a dragon. Before he could reach her, before he could do anything, the dragon opened its maw wide and roared with fire, the flames so hot they melted the stone walkway. The girl did not burn though, appeared unchanged as the blaze washed over her. The basilisk-dragon changed again, lost its wings, shrunk, sprouted fur and floppy ears, and with a vicious snarl tore the girl to pieces, rending her limb from limb.

_"Save me!" she yelled. "Save me!"_

In the silence of his bed chambers he could still hear her screams, but they were faint, like the waning moon in the twilight sky. He could still taste the bitter horror in the back of his throat, didn't know if it came from the dream or from the night before.

He dressed quickly, foregoing a bath. He threw on a white tunic with puffy sleeves and brown doeskin breeches, tucked the pants into his boots, and ran his fingers through his hair to loosen the tangles. His skin felt clammy to the touch. When he looked into the silver mirror propped up against the far wall, he didn't see himself - he saw her, saw the agony in her eyes and the holes in her cheeks, saw the sins of his father come back to haunt him. _'Thank the Gods Aegon passed on to the other side.'_ He shuddered and tried to rid himself of her sight, tried to bury his sadness and revulsion beneath glorious, righteous fury - tried to forget, if only for a few moments, the memory of her mutilated corpse and terrible, piercing screams.

He clung to his fury, held it tight as a shield, but he couldn't forget - couldn't get her out of his mind. He left his rooms almost in a rush, saw her tortured eyes in every flickering shadow and darkened corner. He looked down at his hands and saw them covered in blood. _Her_ blood.

"Oh, Harry," a surprised voice rang out, snapping his dismayed reverie. "...You're up early." There was a question in the voice.

It was Jaime, looking more disheveled than Harry had ever seen him. His tunic and breeches were wrinkled, and there was a faint wine stain across the chest of his shirt. One of his boots was unlaced, and his hair was wild, in a state of dissaray.

Harry glanced back down at his hands to see them clean and clear, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Never in all his years had he seen such a thing, a child murdered so brutally. And so young. It shook him to the core.

He wondered how many Rhaenys's there were in the seven kingdoms, how many little girls had been murdered before their time, how many sisters and brothers butchered for some man's glory. From some place far away, he felt his teeth grinding, and he clenched his hands into fists, knuckles white as alabaster.

"Good morrow..." Jaime trailed off - he must have seen something in Harry's gaze, something in the tightness of his jaw. He approached and reached out a tentative hand, grasping his shoulder. "Harry?"

At once, he let out a long breath, and his posture eased. "I'm fine, uncle," he replied shortly, willing himself to believe it. _'Nothing happened, and it's just a regular morning.' _When he spoke again, his voice was deceptively light, his tone even and measured. "Are the maids about in the kitchens? I would break my fast before I start my day." _'Just a regular morning.'_

"I don't know. I'm heading down to check for myself." Jaime paused and stared at Harry, his gaze shrewd. "Are you alright Harry? You look a fright." His tone lightened. "Like you've seen a ghost," he tried to joke.

Harry almost laughed out loud. Jaime had _no_ idea. He chuckled instead, a dry, empty sound, devoid of feeling. His brow furrowed almost of its own volition, and he looked right through his uncle, like he wasn't there at all. _Everything_ reminded him of her.

Maybe time would deaden the memory. Time and distance.

"Just nightmares," he answered. "Walk with me?" There was something he wanted to ask his uncle.

Jaime nodded and fell in step beside him. Harry had to walk a little faster to keep up with his long strides. They descended to the first level of the Holdfast and crossed the bridge to the keep.

Harry said nothing else as they walked, working in vain to clear his thoughts. It should have been easy - he remembered the lessons - but silencing his emotions only made the image of Rhaenys grow brighter and bolder in his mind, gave her clarity as if she was standing in front of him. He couldn't ignore that, couldn't deaden himself to that.

_'Send me to Dorne indeed. Elia Martell was Prince Doran's sister... if I were him, if that had been my niece...'_

But what would he have done? Justice was a sword that could only be handled by steady hands. The hands of a man. A man of conviction. When the highborn fought, men went to war from the Shivering Sea to the Summer Sea, from the Marches of Dorne to the Vale of Arryn and the Wall beyond. Smallfolk perished by the thousands. Millions, even. Could he do it? Could he wage war, could he _kill_ to avenge his loved ones? Send men to die to _save_ them?

"Has my father returned, do you know?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. For a crazed second he entertained the idea of actually _confronting_ the King about his part in what Harry saw as a heinous crime.

"No. No he hasn't," Jaime replied, his mouth turned up in a grin.

But the moment passed.

They descended a flight of uneven stairs to a dank passage on the southward side of the keep, the walkway slick with moisture from the sea. The torches in the hall burned low, basking the corridor in a soft orange glow. They wouldn't be changed for many hours yet, until the sun fell again and night took over the sky.

The windows were black and gold stained glass, etched with murals of great battles past. They were the same battles his father and his father's lords glorified in drunken exchanges, the battles that singers wrote ballads about, jaunty sonnets of honor and virtue. How many innocents had suffered in those 'great battles'? How much had been destroyed? For a brief moment, he wanted to smash them all, send them careening down the rugged cliffs of Aegon's High Hill to the Blackwater below.

They paused as a pair of serving maids darted past, arms laden with plates and utensils. They were headed to the great hall - while the lords hunted with Robert in the Kingswood, their ladies stayed behind, taking meals with his mother.

Sups were a dazzling affair - the Queen would have the hall decked with red and gold streamers and harpists playing fanciful, melodic tunes. Some days she did nothing at all and served the Ladies draconian meals in dreadful low backed chairs, with itchy cloth stitched to the seats. She would spend hours giving slights, insults worded so delicately as to seem like praise. She relished being the ruling authority in the Keep, loved having power; he could see it in her sharp smiles, a sort of sick enjoyment shining behind her green eyes.

He wondered at that. His mother could be very cold, he knew, sometimes as frigid as the far North, but did she have to be so _vindictive?_

"Are you worried about the fostering?" his uncle asked. "You needn't be. My father can be demanding - " But Harry shook his head no before Jaime had even finished and started walking anew.

"No," he said simply. "Something else." _'Something else entirely'. _He looked up and down the hall and found it empty. There were no servants and no guards - only a barren path of stone. "Can I ask you a question, Uncle?"

He didn't know what came over him. He had seen the way his uncle would tense ever-so-slightly when the men called him Kingslayer. But they were connected, Elia and Rhaenys and Aerys, and he figured Jaime was far safer to ask than his father.

"I don't see why not," the knight said. "This isn't about _girls_ is it? Because if it is, I'll be no good - better to talk to the King -"

"Why did you kill the Mad King?" he asked in a rush, cutting him off.

Jaime fell silent for several long moments. Of all the things Harry could've asked him, he wasn't expecting _that. _"What brought this about?" he asked instead of answering, one eyebrow arched in question. There was a certain stillness to him, worse than the tension he showed when he heard his shameful moniker.

"I just want to know. Why _you_?" Harry stopped walking and leaned against the wall, and Jaime, after a pause, mirrored him across the hall. He felt the cool glass press against his back, heard the waves crashing against the craggy slopes below, and if he listened hard, he could hear the sea birds cawing as they circled overhead. "Why did _you_ do it?" he asked again.

The most gruesome details had been censored from the story, but he had learned about Robert's Rebellion in his lessons, had studied it quite thoroughly. His father, Lord Tywin, even Lord Stark _could have_ killed the king. _Should have _killed the king. So why had it been Jaime? Lord Tywin's army sacked the city... it would've made sense for _him_ to have slain Aerys, or at least have captured him so his father or Lord Stark could exact justice on the tyrant themselves.

Jaime said nothing at first, content to stare at the stone beneath his feet, golden curls hanging in his face. He loosed a short sigh. "Because he was mad," his uncle said at last. He looked up with a smile one his face. "You didn't know that, nephew? He _is_ called the 'Mad King'."

Harry frowned. He should have known his uncle wouldn't give him a straight answer. Jaime Lannister never made anything easy. "It was more than that. It _had_ to be."

"Is this why you wanted me to walk with you?" Jaime questioned. "And here I thought you just enjoyed my company."

"He was insane before the war started," Harry said, disregarding the question. "Some of the servants say he burned a man every night before supper and every morning after breaking his fast."

He had been horrified when he first heard the story, even disbelieving, but some of the ghosts... the ones who stuck to the shadows and never spoke, who shied away from the living as if they were lepers; they were all _burned_. Like Rhaenyra.

"So he liked to set things on fire," Jaime replied glibly. "As I said, he was mad."

"But you didn't kill him _then_. He was mad for a long time, but you didn't kill him until the war." He didn't notice Jaime's face darkening. "Until Lord Tywin brought his army to the city."

"You don't want to hear about the Mad King, Harry. It's a rather depressing subject, and you'll be depressed enough under my father's thumb at Casterly Rock," Jaime deflected.

"Was it for your father?" Harry pressed on. "I know his men sacked King's Landing... did he order you to kill him? Or did my father make the call?"

Jaime pushed away from the wall with a shake of his head and turned to walk down the corridor. "Leave it alone, Harry." His steps were heavy, and he looked agitated, his body tight and rigid.

Harry followed behind him. His responses were answer enough. _Something_ had happened to make Jaime break his vows. And it had to do with Lord Tywin.

"Did my father order his men to kill Rhaegar's family?" He continued to press. That was what he _really_ wanted to know.

"_Harry_!" Jaime turned on him with a snarl. "Leave. It. **Alone**."

Harry had been so caught up in his thoughts, he hadn't realized just how upset Jaime had become. He had never, as far as Harry could remember, spoken to him like that. But he would not be deterred. Not when Rhaenys's battered body haunted him, appearing even in the dark of his mind when his eyes were closed. His uncle's anger silenced him for only a few seconds.

"Tell me _something,_" he demanded as politely as he could._ "_Were they knights?" he ventured.

Jaime didn't speak until they came upon the kitchens. "Yes," he admitted through clenched teeth. "They were knights."

Harry almost scoffed. Of _course_ they were knights. Men blessed in a Sept of the Seven, who prayed to the gods, made vows to them, and gained title and lands off the blood of the weak. Broke their vows with the ease of snapping a twig. What had those men been given? Gold? A castle and a pretty highborn wife?

But Jaime had broken his vows too, when he killed Aerys. But the king had been insane, had fed men to flames for even the slightest infraction, had burned most of Lord Stark's family; roasted them alive, while they still wore their armor. Harry couldn't fault Jaime for killing the Made King; he had deserved to die. And for kidnapping Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar too deserved punishment. But _his_ sins were not his wife's sins. They weren't his _daughter's. _Nor were they his son's.

Septon Garth often said that only the Father and his scales could give the measure of a man, could pass down judgment. That was what they preached, in the hallowed halls of Septs around the kingdom.

But you didn't need divine power to know right from wrong, to see the difference in justified execution or unwarranted murder. Every man with eyes to see and a mind to think knew the difference.

Only the Father could judge a man. But he didn't believe in the Father. Only the Stranger.

And was he not the Stranger's instrument? Commanded by fate from one life to the next, touched by destiny? The things he could _do_! There had to be a reason why he knew what he knew, why he alone could reshape reality, why he had been blessed with an eternal soul. If not to change the world, to avenge the weak, then what? And the price for such a revolution...

It would be a heavy toll indeed.

Surely his purpose was not to sit in a castle somewhere and grow fat and old with a wife and dozens of bawling babes. He wanted children, wanted family... but he was more than that. He was a wizard. The Chosen One... the Master-of-Death.

But could he do it? Could he pass the ultimate judgment? Was it his right?

His uncle had asked himself that question once. Maybe he would know the answer.

"One last question, uncle, and I swear I'll leave you alone."

His uncle glared at him with narrowed eyes. "Go ahead."

"What makes a man right? How do you know when your cause is just?"

Jaime gave him a queer look, as if seeing him for the first time. He was slow to speak. "... The need to be right is the sign of a vulgar mind," he said, tone soft, almost reverent. He looked about to say more, but seemed to think the better of it.

Harry said nothing for a while, thinking on Jaime's reply. What did it mean, exactly? The answer was just there on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind hazy memories from long, long ago, from his childhood in the life before. Something Dumbledore had said, about choices. Two separate somethings, on two separate occasions... but they were linked, those statements.

Gods, _what_ had he said?

_'It is our choices that define us... and the time will come when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.'_

He was paraphrasing, but the sentiment was the same.

You just had to **know**. In your heart and your soul, you just had to **know**.

* * *

He spent the rest of the morning searching for Tyrion. He looked high and low, in vaulted halls and wayward apartments, but was unable to find the Imp. He wanted to speak with him about the fostering, and let his uncle know that he needn't despair the loss of Casterly Rock. Noon found him walking the parapets, eyes peeled for Tyrion's short, stout body, but the dwarf was nowhere to be seen. In one shadowed hall he even tried a Point Me spell, but all he had managed, after a bout of frustration, was a thin jet of fire. It was a common theme - most of his malfunctioned attempts at wandless magic resulted in flames of some sort.

So he took his lessons with Pycelle, and when the ancient Grand Maester retired for the day, claiming aches and ailments of advanced age, a much younger maester continued Harry's studies, a man called Wulfric.

He was heavy set, with watery brown eyes set in a square face, and black hair about his head like a crown. His maester collar wasn't half as long as Pycelle's. The chain was wrought with several iron links - representing warcraft, and links of copper for history, yellow gold for economics, silver for medicine, and bronze for astronomy, amongst others of steel and pewter. He knew much about the lands of Essos, and regaled Harry with a tale of the Battle of Qohor, when slaves stood against a massive horde of Dothraki Screamers. He spoke of it to mention tactics, or the lack thereof.

"They're bowmen, the Dothraki, and ferocious in an open field... and yet they charged a wall of spears for their disdain against unmounted men. They would have done better outflanking the Unsullied and felling them with their bows."

From there, Harry ventured to the training yard for his second set of lessons, and again saw neither hide nor hair of his uncle. He had asked around, questioned various servants and guardsmen, but none had seen him. He began to wonder if perhaps his uncle was avoiding him.

_'I'd usually have seen him at least once by this time of day,'_ he thought.

He hung around the training yard after his lessons, arms resting against a wooden post, one foot up on the lowest rung of the fence as he watched Sandor trounce yet another knight.

He was a terrible sight to behold, tall and thick with muscle, half of his face a gnarled web of wicked, twisting scars. The pocked skin was charred black, burned down to the bone at his jaw, and oozed red when he grimaced. He was hideous, more monster than man, and his abrasive personality made his wounds all the more noticeable.

Harry wasn't the only one watching. Lady Elia was there, was _always_ there, watching Sandor from within the shadows of the barracks. Jaime stood off to his side, cloaked in white - he hadn't spoken to him since earlier in the day, and had left his instruction to Ser Barristan - and beside him stood Thoros, in red velvet robes, and Ser Aron, clad in a studded, sleeveless, black leather brigandine.

Joffrey, surprisingly, watched as well, sitting tall on the post beside Jaime, his doublet and breeches dirtied from dust. Allar Deem, a goldcloak - nastiest of the bunch, according to Aeryn - stood on the other side of the fence, the frog faced Janos Slynt with him, both in black ringmail. Other men stood with them, men whose names Harry had yet to learn. They were betting on the matches - coppers from what he could hear - and it seemed the barrel-bodied Janos was winning, his heavy jowls bouncing as he laughed at Allar's misfortune.

There were other sers as well - the portly drunkard, Ser Dontos, the shaggy haired, barrel-chested Ser Andar of the Vale, sporting a beard as thick as the hair on his head, the dark skinned Lothor, his oily skin marked with dozens of thin white scars, and the lithe, young red-haired Ser Derwyck as well, knighted for his skill shown in the joust. All had tried their swords against Sandor, and all had fallen, and from the grunts of pain and shouts of frustration in the ring, another had fallen as well.

"Is this all King's Landing has to offer?" Sandor thundered. He looked around the ring at the crowd of men, face twisted in a scowl. "What of you, Kingslayer?" He pointed to Jaime with his sword. "Will you face me?"

_'Don't call him Kingslayer, you damned dog.'_ Harry's mood, sour since the morning, hadn't improved. He suspected that Sandor had had something to do with Rhaenys's death.

"_Ser_ Jaime," Harry spoke up. He did not shy away from Sandor's narrowed grey eyes when the man wheeled around to face him. Didn't so much as blink. "His name is Ser Jaime, and you will refer to him as such." He glanced at his uncle out the corners of his eyes, but Jaime didn't look his way. Just stared ahead, his expression guarded.

Sandor chuckled, a rough sound, like grinding rocks. "Of course, my _prince_." He said the word as if it was an insult. Despite his servitude, he didn't seem to think well of the nobility. Of anyone, really. "Well, _Ser_ Jaime?" He spat out 'Ser' like a curse, a title to be scorned instead of admired.

It seemed he had a talent for transforming honorable titles into disparaging epitaphs.

Jaime was unaffected though - he appeared to be carved of stone. "A lion does not lower itself to fight with _dogs_." He was at his most condescending, his words burning with contempt.

A few men chortled here and there, but quickly fell silent under Sandor's heated glare as he spun about, his thin hair whipping around his head. Most of the men had fallen against him. If Sandor was but a dog, then they were much less.

"You're just as much a dog as I am, Kingslayer," Sandor said. Then his eyes found Harry's, and his ugly face widened in a baleful smile. "Excuse me, my prince. _Ser_ Jaime," he said, but the words might as well have been the same - the insult was still there, woven with pitch of his voice. He looked back to Jaime. "The King says jump, and you say how high."

Jaime didn't even bother scowling at Sandor. He gave a little laugh, no more than a light chuckle, but said nothing.

Sandor looked to Thoros then, grey eyes gleaming. The priest had been the one to shame him in the mêlée. "You, priest - come and fight me without your flaming blade; lets see how well you do with real steel."

"My swords _are_ steel," Thoros said, but he still declined, shaking his head. "Mayhaps another time," he finished with a soft smirk.

Sandor was disgusted. "All these Lords, all these knights, and no one will face me?" He frowned. "Craven cunts, the lot of you." He left the ring, and vaulted across the highest rung of the fence. "Bloody fucking _sers_."

He didn't leave the training yard though, and walked to stand at Joffrey's back, swearing all the while.

Ser Aron spoke up, watching Sandor disdainfully.

"Prince Joffrey, Prince Harry, perhaps you would grace us with a showing?" He glanced at each of them. "We've seen enough of old men waving swords, and as instructor for the both of you, I would see who has best absorbed my lessons."

He waved them into the ring.

Harry climbed between the posts with a sigh as Joffrey pushed off from his seat, a smirk on his face. The betting men moved on when Sandor left the ring, migrating to the eastern barracks. Soon, Harry thought, they would begin their shifts.

Ser Aron gave them both wooden swords and padded doublets to wear. "Fight well," he said, then stepped back to lean against the fence, his arms folded across his chest.

Harry shifted his feet to put the length of his shoulders between them, and set his guard, left arm tight to his chest while he gripped the blade with his right, the sword angled down towards Joffrey. His brother adopted a stance as well, but he stood with his feet splayed wide, wider than his shoulders, and he held his blade level with his chest.

"Begin!" Ser Aron barked.

Joffrey struck first, stepped forward to jab his sword into Harry's chest. His wide stance ruined his balance, but even more than that, Harry had learned from Barristan that when a man moved linearly, he was weak laterally. With a quick swipe, Harry knocked Joffrey's sword away and rapped his knuckles. He pressed the attack, slid forward and twisted his wrist, smacking his blade against Joffrey's inside shoulder. He followed through and spun around to deliver a final blow, but Joffrey kicked out and caught his shin with the toe of his boot and he stumbled.

"You're quite good at this brother," Joffrey said, wincing from the ache in his hand. He spoke somewhat quietly. "Good enough to maybe serve on my Kingsguard when I become King." He had learned from his mistake and stayed away, tightening his stance.

"I can't be a member of your Kingsguard," Harry returned, just as quiet. "I'm to be Lord of Casterly Rock."

And even if he wasn't heir to Casterly Rock, he would _never_ serve on Joffrey's Kingsguard.

"True," Joffrey said, giving Harry's sword a tentative smack. "But if I will it so... well, who are you to deny your king?"

As they bantered back and forth, trading blows and words, the world seemed to shrink. The scattered crowd watching them faded away to nothingness, disappeared behind fog and shadows. He tuned everything else out, erasing it from his perception. There was only the sword in his hand, smoothly sanded to fit perfectly in his palm, the ground beneath his feet, and his opponent. _Joffrey_.

His brother attacked again, quicker this time, thrusting his sword once more into Harry's chest. Harry stepped aside the lunge, and from Joffrey's flank moved to strike his ribs, but he executed a surprisingly deft manuever and twisted away from the blow. He stepped back to put some space between them, and began circling Harry as if he was prey.

"_I_ am a Prince," Harry said, his voice hard, as he turned in tandem with Joffrey. "When you are King, I will _also_ be Warden of the West. The Westerlands are bigger than the Crownlands, I've heard. The Westerlands are also richer."

Joffrey scowled. "And as my vassal, all that is yours will be mine as well." His face changed, lightened, and Harry grew wary. Joffrey edged closer. "Too bad Myrcella won't be going with you," he said quietly with a fiendish smile.

His eyes widening in alarm just a second later as he shuffled away from Harry's sudden thrust.

"Don't worry brother," Joffrey said as he danced away from another attack. "I'll take good care of her."

Images of Rhaenys flashed across Harry's mind, her flesh ruined, eyes black with pain, mouth wide, _screaming_. She morphed into Myrcella, her blonde curls lank and thin, her face ripped from steel, her body wet with blood. He felt his stomach drop, and his heart beat sped to an almost feverish pace. It sounded loud in his ears, like war drums.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. "She's your **sister**," he growled, scowling. He spared a glance at the onlookers, but none appeared privy to their conversation - they hadn't heard Joffrey.

"Yes, unfortunately." Joffrey appeared to be truly disappointed. "But," he said, and his mouth spread again into a wicked grin, "that whore of yours isn't my sister."

Harry grew angrier still and tried to calm his mind with deep, long breaths. The single-mindedness he had summoned mere moments before was gone. Gone as if it had never existed. The breathing didn't work.

The air warmed, grew stifling, and Harry felt sweat run down his face. "She_ isn't_ a whore." His tone was harsh, warning.

"She isn't a whore _yet,_" Joffrey said, beyond pleased. "Don't look so upset, Harry! I'll leave her in one piece for you." He looked thoughtful. "Or pieces, depending on how I feel."

Harry attacked again, drove forward like a charging auroch, his anger granting him strength and speed beyond his normal capabilities. Joffrey was ill-prepared for the ferocity of his assault, and took blows to his chest and his ribs, but he managed to evade what Harry intended as knockout blow.

Joffrey was _furious_. Harry was humiliating him. Making him look a fool.

"But I'll have her first," he continued, "and then I'll feed her corpse to _pigs_. Or maybe - "

Harry moved faster still, his fury from the morning bleeding over into his disgust and anger with his brother, and he swung his sword so hard it knocked Joffrey's from his hands. He didn't stop at that, swatting his brother in the shoulder and the neck with resounding thunks, leaving red welts behind. Then he smashed his face with the flat of his blade, right across the jaw. Joffrey's head whipped to the side and he fell to the ground.

Harry reared back to strike again, but a loud shout penetrated the thick cloud of anger dulling his senses.

"Stop!" Ser Aron yelled, had _been_ yelling, and rushed into the ring.

He was beyond disappointed - it was plain to see from the look on his face - and his skin was flushed, his footfalls heavy and foreboding as he drew nearer.

"Harry..." He began, but something he saw in Harry's face made him draw short. Something he hadn't seen before.

Harry looked down at Joffrey, his breath coming in short bursts. He had never before been so disgusted with his brother.

"Touch her," he said, voice quiet, barely above a whisper, "and I'll have whatever you touch her with, be it your hands or your _cock_. This I **_swear_**, before all the Gods, old and new."

Ser Aron moved to help Joffrey to his feet but Joffrey pushed him away, scowling at Harry as he stood. His face was an angry red, and his jaw had already started to swell.

"You'll pay for this brother."

He turned and left the ring, his gait even, his back tall and straight. For all his vileness, he _looked_ the part of a Prince.

But a King needed more than looks.

Harry departed the confines of the training yard after a quick tongue lashing from Ser Aron. His dornish accent was strong when he was angry, and his words seemed to blend together. _'He will be your King, you **can't** do things like that, Harry! Even wooden swords can be fatal with enough force.' _No 'my prince', as he was oft to say. It was the angriest he had seen the dornishman, but Harry wasn't fazed. There were far more terrible things to be angry about.

_'Do **you** know what happened to Elia?'_ he thought. _'She was Dornish._' He didn't voice his thoughts though, and barely even acknowledged Ser Aron's words. In his mind, his actions were justified, future King or no.

As he climbed through the posts to exit the yard a shadow fell over him, big and broad. He looked up into Sandor's scarred face.

"That wasn't a very nice thing to do to your brother," he said in his deep, gruff voice. He looked Harry in the eye when he spoke, dared him to cringe away from his grotesque face.

Harry was unimpressed; he had seen far worse burns. "Do you and _your_ brother do nice things to each other?" he said with a frown. There was a flash of fire and a gravestone behind Sandor's eyes, but nothing else, and it all flashed by so quickly he could almost think he imagined it.

"My brother doesn't know the meaning of 'nice'." His voice was heavy with vitriol. He turned away from Harry to follow in Joffrey's wake.

Harry walked after him, jogging to keep up with Sandor's massive gait. They passed a granary as they walked, a structure of stone and wood, laden with oats from the farms of the Crownlands. Birds congregated near the top of the stout building, had made homes on the sloped roof, and stained the blackened stone with excrement. A group of servants - boys not yet men grown - with but one bow between them, stood around the granary, taking turns shooting arrows at the birds.

"Did you take part in the Sack of King's Landing?"

He tried not to look, but Elia had moved away from the shadows of the barracks and right through the group of boys - he had seen them shiver - to fall in step beside him, her haunting eyes boring holes into Sandor's skull. She didn't so much as spare Harry a glance.

"No. I was serving at Casterly Rock when the lions took the city."

"And what of your brother, Gregor?" He asked, fishing. He noticed Sandor stiffen at the name. "He was here during the Sack, wasn't he?"

Elia looked at him finally, a sharp look, but Harry didn't return her attentions.

"What does it matter?" Sandor asked, voice gruffer than before. "That was before your time."

"I'm interested in history," Harry replied, not missing a beat. "And battles," he added after a moment.

"That was no _battle,_" Sandor said, his tone condescending. "It was a massacre. Your _knights_ ransacked the city, raped and killed whoever they came across. Women, men... even children." He appeared to enjoy telling Harry the story. Enjoyed anything, it seemed, that parted the veil the nobility used to shroud their more heinous actions.

"They aren't _my_ knights." Not _his_ knights, but knights nonetheless. Faithless men. Worthless men, save for the might of their swords. _'Only ranks and titles separate knights and broken men.'_

"They will be," Sandor returned. "You're the heir to Casterly Rock, aren't you?"

Elia's gaze sharpened further. Her eyes were like knives, cutting into him.

"Not yet," Harry replied, but he was looking at Elia.

He studied her crushed neck and her beautiful, bruised face, all the rips and tears in the front of her skirts, and the blood that stained her gown from chest to thigh. His pace slowed to a crawl as his eyes roved over her, and he eventually came to a stop. Sandor continued walking, leaving Harry alone.

Alone with Elia.

"It was Gregor, wasn't it?" he said quietly.

It wasn't hard to figure out, now that he knew Sandor hadn't been the culprit.

"So it's true. You _can_ see me." She looked at him as one would look at a particularly interesting creature.

"Did he... did he kill Rhaenys too?" he asked, indifferent to the derision in her eyes. He was much more affected by the look of her, beautiful but battered, once olive skin paled by death, marred with angry red and purple marks.

"A dog mauled me," she said, "but it was a manticore that took my daughter."

_'The dog is Gregor,'_ Harry thought. _'But who is the manticore?'_

She leaned closer, too close, her eyes boring into him. "But why do you care?" She tilted her head as she studied him. "Will you kill them, little lion?" There was a lilt to her voice, a faux sweetness that was more chilling than outright anger. "Will you kill the men who murdered me and mine?"

"I'm of House Baratheon," Harry replied absently, trying to keep his composure. She was very badly bruised, and up close, he could make out each abrasion. "We are stags."

"Whorespawn of the Usurper you may be," she spat, "you're a lion at heart." She put a hand on his head and it sunk through his face, her touch so cold that it burned. "A little black lion, with hair like your father and eyes like your mother." She smiled, but it was twisted, full of loathing. "Twice cursed by the Gods." Her voice lowered, growing soft, and he had to strain to hear her. "You're younger than my Aegon would've been."

She studied his face, trying and failing to trace the dimples in his cheeks. She had no substance, no solidity, only coldness, and Harry felt it in the pit of his stomach and in the soles of his feet. There was a deep, deep sadness written across his face, broken only by the occasional wince from the sheer cold of her touch. He weathered it when he could have moved away - _should_ have moved away - but a twisted sense of obligation kept him rooted to the spot.

This was the price for his father's kingdom. This woman died so his father could sit on the throne - he could stand her cold essence for a few moments.

"Are you going to avenge me, little lion? Avenge my children?"

"If... if I can," he said, nonplussed.

Elia was nothing how he had imagined... but at the same time, she was everything he had feared, after 'meeting' Rhaenys. She was only a woman, but she had been wronged by the world, and was twisted in death, locked in a perpetual haze of hatred. How long had she haunted the keep, stalking its shadows, waiting for a glimpse of the man who had killed her? He had expected a lady, wrought with sadness, only driven to anger when gazing upon her killer, but he had be wrong. Her anger was not an occasional thing - it was what tethered her to the earth. It was ongoing and unceasing. Eternal.

"It's wrong, what happened to you," he began, but Elia spoke before he could say more, her voice a shrill screech.

'"Wrong? _Wrong_? _**WRONG**_?!" Her face darkened with rage, and as her lips parted, Harry saw the gaps in her teeth where they had been knocked out. "Wrong, little lion, is being humiliated, or robbed, or cheated. What happened to me was far from _wrong_."

"Bad choice of words," he said, trying to placate her. She was _so_ loud. He forgot, for a moment, that he alone could see and hear her, forgot that her voice was, in truth, only as loud as silence. "How... how could I avenge you?"

"Awww, the little lion wants to avenge me." Her voice was sickeningly sweet, like lemon cakes drenched in syrup. Her face contorted again, rage written in every bruise, and her jaw seemed to stretch as she yelled, "Kill your father! Kill your grandfather! Kill every dog, and every stag, and every lion!" Then all at once she calmed, and her voice grew solemn. "Kill everything they hold dear - everything **you** hold dear. Kill them and smile at their corpses."

Harry was aghast. He should have known better - no ghost of the Red Keep was _pleasant_. "I-I can't do that."

And smiling? What did that have to do with anything? What kind of man would smile at the dead?

She scoffed. "Then why are you **here**, little lion?" She put heavy emphasis on the word 'here'. Too heavy.

"I-"

"Harry?"

Harry jerked around with a start, his heart pumping, eyes wild. But it was only Thoros, his long robes dragging behind him.

"You having a chat with air?" Thoros said, fishing for a laugh, but he eyed Harry intently.

He recognized a distressed child when he saw one, but there was something knowing in his scrutiny, as if he was aware exactly had been going on.

"Just... just thinking out loud," Harry said lamely, tone almost glum. He glanced behind him, but Elia was gone. _'That's a good thing, I think.'_

"Have you seen my uncle?" He asked as he turned back, voice lightening as he spoke. Thoros was a man of similar tastes, and he drank with Tyrion often enough. Maybe he would know.

"Which one, lad? You've quite a few of them."

Harry gave a weak laugh. "Tyrion," he said.

"Well... knowing him - and I do - he'd be at a brothel drowning himself in wine and whores." He appeared thoughtful. "Sounds like a good idea, actually."

"You're a terrible priest, Thoros," Harry said, and his laugh came a bit easier. It was a true statement. Thoros had been in King's Landing for as long as Harry could remember, drinking and whoring all the while - he was almost as lecherous as the King, and drank even more, from what Harry saw. He wondered, not for the first time, if his father drank to forget his past... and if Thoros drank to forget his as well.

"Yes, well... I never claimed to be a good one. May I ask why you want to see him? I noticed he hasn't been his normal cheerful self," Thoros explained. "Missed a round of ale. And mead. And wine. He's been a bit... off," he said with a shake of his hand, "since that dinner."

"That's what I wanted to talk with him about. He's still my uncle, still my friend... I just don't want him to be angry with me."

That wasn't the whole truth, not exactly. He remembered what Jaime had said, about him being depressed under Tywin's thumb, and his mother's words too - she had told him he wouldn't have the same freedom he enjoyed in King's Landing, once he went to Casterly Rock. Tyrion was usually more candid, and he wanted to know what his uncle had to say on the matter.

"I don't think he's angry with you," Thoros said. "Angry, yes, but not with you."

"Well... there's only one way to find out."

Harry started walking again, through empty courtyards brightened by wildflowers, down an ashen pathway lined with stone stags, towards the stables.

"The girl Joffrey was talking about," Thoros began. "I know of her. Silver and gold hair, dark blue eyes?"

Harry stopped and turned back to face the priest and nodded even as his gaze sharpened. He was noticeably wary.

Thoros, always polite, always jovial, recognized the look Harry gave him and held back a laugh. "I can ask some people to keep an eye on her, if you like," he said, voice laced with amusement.

Harry hadn't been expecting that, and it showed on his face. "Thank you, Thoros," he said, truly grateful. But he planned on taking Aeryn with him, and Jerryd, and Fat Lip, and Mumbly too, if he could manage it. "How do you know Aeryn?"

Thoros smiled fondly and his gaze grew distant as he reminisced.

"I knew her mother, before I came to King's Landing." His grin turned lustful. "I know her a bit better now."

* * *

He found Tyrion at Chataya's brothel on the east end of the Street of Silk, a quaint manse growing out of the rising slope of Rhaenys's Hill along a winding path. It was two stories, one of stone and one of timber, with a turret rising from the southern corner of the structure. The windows were framed with lead and an elaborate lamp hung over the door, decorated with scarlet glass and gilded in bronze.

He had come with a retinue of ten Gold Cloaks. He told them to wait outside, but Ser Brenden and the newly appointed Frederick had been given strict instructions to remain with him at all times. He didn't feel like arguing so he allowed them to accompany him into the manse, and stepped past the threshold into the most expensive brothel in King's Landing.

It wasn't overly large, about as big as most any other house in the district. The antechamber smelled of foreign spices and sweet oils, and the floor was made of cool stone decorated with a mosaic of two naked women entwined in love.

He walked past an ornate Myrish screen of dreaming maidens laying in fields of flowers to reach the next room, and paused at the sight presented within.

The common room was sparsely populated with few women and even fewer men. The whpres were like fairies out of a fantasy, bright and beautiful, clothed in the barest of gowns, the material so thin he could see their breasts as if they were bare. Soft music wafted through the air. With the wispy smoke from burning incense and the smell and the atmosphere, he could imagine it all a dream.

Tyrion sat in a cushioned alcove beside a leaded window, the light streaming through it skewed by the colored glass. As he drew nearer to his uncle he noticed that the woman sitting with him bore resemblance to Aeryn.

She was strangely beautiful, with striking blue hair hanging about her head in lazy ringlets, and big, slanted, dark blue eyes. Finely sculpted ruby lips sat above a sharp chin. Her nose was small and pointed, and a purple gem sparkled in her left nostril. It matched the color of her gown, if the garment could be called that.

The chest line dipped low, lower than he had seen any noblewoman wear, and in that moment he thought the twin curves of her breasts the most beautiful things he had ever seen. There were slits in the side of the dress that came all the way up to her hips, revealing long, shapely legs.

"I've been looking for you uncle," he told Tyrion, finally tearing his eyes away from the woman. "I'd like to talk." He looked around at the whores and their patrons. "Maybe somewhere else?"

"This place is as good as any," Tyrion said, words slurred. "But perhaps a bit of privacy might do us good." He turned to the woman. "Wait here. I'll call for you when I'm done." Then he shifted off the seat, cup in hand. "Follow me," he said to Harry.

He followed Tyrion down a darkened hallway and up two flights of stairs, only to take a separate hall to _another_ smaller, narrower set of stairs. They passed a few girls along the way, young and red-faced, some with tumbling curls, others with complex braids. Ser Brenden and Frederick made to follow him, but a sharp glare stilled them, and a few quick words had them at the table Tyrion had just left, a serving woman approaching them before Harry and Tyrion passed the threshold to the hall.

"Whores at least require coin before they spill your secrets, and Chataya's whores require more gold than most," Tyrion said as they entered the room.

The chamber was circular and well lit, and featured a large, plush, canopied bed - Tyrion could fit in it ten times over - pressed against the far side of the room. A flaming heart of ruby and apricot gems set in molded brass hung above the bed. A tall wardrobe of colored weirwood stood across from the bed, decorated with erotic carvings, and an exquisitely sculpted redwood table large enough for three or four people sat in the middle of the room with a single chair tucked under it. Unlit candles and strips of multi-colored cloth rested against the wood.

A narrow leaded window patterned with red and gold diamonds sat high in the wall, and lower down hung several brilliant tapestries - from Lys, judging from the material and detail depicted - in dazzling colors, showcasing fantastical landscapes and carnal pursuits. One was decorated with dark purple mountains against a golden sky dotted with black, winged sphinxes, and another depicted naked men and women coupled amidst blue clouds against a sea of bright, searing red. The last tapestry, plainer than the rest, displayed a stout red temple surrounded by shadow.

Tyrion closed the door behind Harry and grabbed the little stool that had been sitting behind it.

"Sit down, Harry, and speak freely. You are Prince Harry of the Royal branch of House Baratheon, and Heir to Casterly Rock," he began, dragging the stool over to the table, "a shining example of wit and chivalry, champion of the oppressed... the perfect, little prince." He grunted as he climbed atop the seat. "Young and handsome. Clever. **Whole**." Tyrion couldn't hide his bitterness. It soured every word, twisted praise into mocking jeers.

Harry was a bit perturbed by his uncle's words, but attributed them to the wine. Tyrion had been bitter last night, he knew, but surely he didn't blame _him_? "I just wanted to say that... that I understand _why_ you're angry, uncle. I can't offer you all the gold in Casterly Rock, and I can't make you the lord of it, but..." He searched for the right words. "You needn't worry, about your future. You _are_ my favorite uncle." He finished with a smile, trying to joke, but as his uncle sat, his expression still sullen, the smile slid right off his face.

"You think highly of yourself, don't you Harry?" Tyrion asked suddenly, sipping his wine. "Think yourself worthy of your great fortune?" He paused as if waiting for an answer, but when Harry opened his mouth to speak, Tyrion continued. "Of course you do. You're the **P**erfect **P**rince," he said, but the praise was soured, corrupted by the derision in his voice.

"I don't... I'm not... I'm not perfect," Harry protested. But he _did_ think highly of himself, didn't he? How could he not? "If I'm not worthy now, then I _will _be in the future." He had memories of life and death, of magic that could alter thoughts and make the inanimate animate. True, he hadn't _done_ anything yet...

But he would.

Tyrion ignored Harry's words. He held up a dragon in his hand, pulled it from a sack as fat as two fists, stuffed with silver and gold coins. "This is my father's gold," he announced, spinning it around in his fingers. "He shits it himself. It'll be yours one day. And then I can spend your gold on wine and whores, and he can roll in his grave." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "A win-win for everyone involved, except, oh wait - Casterly Rock is **mine**!"

The wine made him mercurial, unpredictable, and his tone grew darker, tainted with decades of angst.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through, what I've endured because of Tywin Lannister? Because I was cursed to be half a man? My mother died when the Gods tore me from her womb, and if Lord Tywin had his way I'd have died with her. He'd have probably done it himself - strangled me in my crib - but Kinslaying isn't good for the 'legacy'."

His words were nasty, his tone was nasty, but when Harry looked at him, he saw pain blossoming in his mismatched eyes. He hoped that his uncle was exaggerating. Hoped that the wine manipulated his words.

He had met Lord Tywin before, when he was very young. He hadn't minced words when Harry had asked him about the song, "Rains of Castamere." He had spoken, as if talking of culling sick cattle or lame horses, of massacring the Reynes and Tarbecks and razing their castles to the ground.

Certainly a ruthless man, but would he wish death on his own child? _'He gave Tyrion's inheritance away,'_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind. And it was possible that it had been _his_ men who put Elia and Rhaenys to the sword. And little Aegon too, not even off his mother's teat.

"But it's not your fault I'm only half a man," Tyrion said with a breath. He sounded tired. Weary. "I blame my Father. I am but a cruel jest by the Gods," he said dramatically. "A punishment for his hubris. The great Tywin Lannister, a man worth ten Lords, sire to the Halfman. What a joke."

He looked like a man on the verge of collapse as he took another pull from his cup.

"But you _aren't_ half a man, uncle," Harry hastened to assure him. He had come here for this, to assuage his uncle's bruised ego. He wasn't turned away by Tyrion's words. A bit miffed, but harsh words couldn't affect the love he had for his uncle. "Yes, you're, er... small," he admitted, "but size isn't what truly matters. You're as much a man as Jaime... only a different sort, that's all. He has his swords and lances... you have your books. I understand if you're angry, if you're upset - "

"Ha! Upset he says." Tyrion scoffed. "Upset doesn't even begin to cover it."

"- But I _will_ become the Heir to Casterly Rock," Harry pushed on, ignoring his uncle's outburst.

He stared at Tyrion long and hard, let his will be known in the slant of his jaw and the curve of his lips, wormed his way into a mind poisoned with grief. "And maybe, when I am its Lord," he began, his tone jovial, "we can get you a brothel of your own, a brothel and a winery right on the coast of Lannisport. How does that sound?"

Tyrion gave him a considering look. "You speak the tongue well nephew." He downed the rest of his cup and swayed when he set it on the table. "But you are exceedingly arrogant. And foolish."

Harry frowned, incensed. _Arrogant?_ It was an absurd accusation, in his eyes. "I am not arrogant," he denied, folding his arms. "I'm confident... bold, maybe, and a little impertinent," he admitted, thinking back to the times he had argued with his father and Lord Arryn and Master Pycelle, "but I'm not _arrogant_."

"I beg to differ. You agree though, on your foolishness?"

"I'm not foolish either!"

Harry wasn't prepared for this. He should've known better. Hadn't he he just discovered what sort of man Tywin Lannister was? And here was his child; the child that he hated, scorned, and belittled. Lord Tywini's low regard for his youngest son had been created the perfect environment to develop a sharp tongue, and at this moment, Tyrion's was as sharp as valyrian steel.

"Well of course _you_ don't think so, but let us review the facts, shall we?" He lifted his hands, fingers splayed wide. "You _foolishly_ sneak out of the castle and _arrogantly_ believe that none are the wiser," he said, folding a thumb. "You _foolishly_ ingratiate yourself into a band of child thieves, and _arrogantly_ believe that they are bettered for knowing you." He folded another finger. "You -

"I _don't_ believe that," Harry cut in, anger deepening his voice.

He could admit it wasn't smart to sneak out of the castle, and he knew that he would be caught one day... and yes, he _did_ believe that the Nameless were bettered. Not because of him, though... but because he had given them a _chance_, an opportunity for a future they would've never had. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Tyrion spoke quicker.

"Your actions speak otherwise_,_ dear nephew," Tyrion said, relentless. "You're their leader, their 'guiding light'. They follow you like sheep. _All_ the smallfolk follow you like sheep, and you _revel_ in the attention."

"I _do not._" He was getting sidetracked. Each accusation needed a different response, but Tyrion just kept coming and coming, dishing cutting remark after cutting remark. "I try to be wh- " He stopped speaking as his uncle's raucous laughter drowned out his voice, anger growing in the pit of his belly.

"You forget, the castle talks, Harry, and the city does as well. People - a very select few of them - are smarter than you give them credit for. Tell me, how did you meet your little friends?"

"It doesn't matter." He tried to keep his voice level, but Tyrion's tone - insinuating, accusing, warped with malice - it was getting under his skin.

"Oh, but it does. You don't want to share? Fine, I'll tell _you_ then. They tried to rob you. Rob a prince! They'd have lost their hands if it was any other noble."

"They were just - "

"But you?" Tyrion continued over him, louder. "You _befriend_ **them**, and belittle your own brother!"

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "What does **Joffrey** have to do with this?! With them? He's a _monster_. They were just... misguided."

"Maybe," Tyrion admitted. "But he's still your family. Your _brother_. Is he not worthy of the same consideration you gave your friends? If you helped your brother instead of putting him down, maybe he would be different. But how will we ever know? You've looked down your nose at him your entire life. You look down at _all_ of us."

That wasn't true, was it? Joffrey had always been nasty, since they were small, and Harry had seen the things his brother got up to; seen the remains of ravens in overgrown courtyards, and kitchen cats hanging from trees. Ignoring his cruelty and accepting his bullying wouldn't have _helped_. And if he felt his father was an inept king and a worse husband, if he thought his mother a little too haughty, if he thought Stannis too rigid, or Renly too lax, if he felt that Tyrion was irresponsible and Jaime a bit shallow, it didn't mean he looked _down_ on them. That was just who they were.

"No I-"

"You smile and joke," Tyrion continued. "But I can see it in your eyes. You think you're better than us. Better than _me_."

"I _don't_ think that," he said firmly.

"Deny it all you want, Harry. The truth will out." His tone was lighter than it had been, but there was still something sinister hidden in his voice. "You think you have all the answers... or at least _some_ of them. You've deluded yourself, nephew of mine, if you think that you are any different from the rest of us."

Harry stood suddenly, almost toppling the table. "I won't sit h -"

"Sit **down**, Harry," Tyrion said. When Harry didn't sit, he sighed. "Please, Harry, sit. We're not done yet. Despite your faults, you're still my nephew, and I can't really blame _you _for how you are. You're only a child... **sit**." He said again, when Harry still didn't move.

Begrudgingly, looking every bit a boy of nine, Harry sat, sulking all the while. He felt all the worse because there was truth veiled in his uncle's accusations. A very slight truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"Are you done insulting me?"

"Not quite," Tyrion said, tone almost regretful. "You're smart Harry. And clever, and good with words, when your temper hasn't taken hold of you." He paused as Harry glared at him, tried to hold back a smile. "You're a nice boy. But my sister and the King have done a _terrible_ job raising you. Now Myrcella, she's a sweet child, and I thank that Septa every day, but you?" He shook his head. "You humiliated your brother because of what? Some whore's daughter? You put a lowborn girl before your own blood. Do you think _they're _better than us?"

"No! Yes! I... I don't know."

They lived wretched lives. They robbed, and cheated and stole... but it was out of necessity. That was more than he could say for some of the highborn. He had heard enough stories whispered in darkened halls. All the smallfolk needed was a chance.

"They don't deserve what happens to them," he said. "How we treat them... like... like sheep, or cattle. They're people too, just like you and me. During war, knights are ransomed back to their lords, but smallfolk? They're butchered like beasts for no crime but calling enemy lands home. If not for the circumstances of your birth, you could've been some farmer's son, or a merchant. I could've been a tanner, or a baker - anything! Should we hold that against them? The circumstances of their birth?"

Tyrion shifted in his seat and lay his hands across the table.

"So you want equality?" He leaned forward. "And yet you still think yourself their better... how could that _possibly_ work, Harry? How could you lead them if you stand among them? There is a reason we have ruling class and a serving class." He let out a long, slow breath. "It's easy to forget how young you are.. for all your cleverness and strange wisdom, you don't really understand the world, do you?"

"I... I... no," he said finally. "No I don't."

'_Not this world. Not exactly.'_ He remembered Hermione and her crusade to reshape the wizarding world. It had _worked_. The pureblood regime had been small put powerful, and they had all, for the most part, fallen with Voldemort. But in Westeros? He would have to reform every noble House and every minor lord. And most, he realized, he would have to kill. Or exile. '_Either way, people would die._'

Tyrion eyed his cup as if it would refill itself.

"Harry, the smallfolk are not saints. Yes, they suffer greatly when nobles go to war, and their women are raped and their farms are pillaged, but if they could, they'd do the same to us. There have been a few peasant uprising over the centuries... _very_ few. They killed more of their own people than anything."

"Peasants don't rebel for nothing," Harry said. "You can't blame them for fighting against injustice. They have no one to protect them, no one to defend them - "

"And you think that person is _you_?" Tyrion asked, incredulous. "Gods, you're only a boy! You haven't even grown your first hairs, fucked a girl, and you know _nothing_ of the world! Do you know _why_ the smallfolk love you?"

"Because I love them," he replied, as if the answer was simple. "Because I _listen_ to them."

A great mocking laugh burst out of Tyrion, and it was several long moments before he managed to speak. "Don't be ridiculous. They love you because you're a prince. Because your name _means_ something. If you were a tanner, or a baker, no one would give you the time of the day. Do you think people would follow you to pray at the Great Sept if you were just some normal boy? You would have neither coins to throw to them, nor to buy their wares. You'd be nothing to them. Don't let the pedestal you view them from taint your vision."

Harry mulled over his words. He had never questioned _why_ people treated him the way they did. "What are you trying to say, Tyrion?".

"I'm saying that you are _naive_, Harry. I'm saying that you are _arrogant _and _foolish_. You were listening, weren't you?"

He huffed. "Fine. So I'm arrogant. So I'm foolish. Doesn't change the fact that it isn't fair that the smallfolk suffer for _our_ transgressions."

"Fair? Fair?! Ha!" Tyrion wiped his eyes. "Fair, he says. You will soon learn, Harry, that the world is far from fair."

But it _was_. Harry Potter had changed the world. He had made it fair, him and his friends. Made it just. You couldn't change nature, but you could change men. "And if I can _make_ it fair?" He asked, steel in his voice.

"If you have the power to do that, than may the Gods be with you. But people will die. Only war brings change, and change brings death to the unyielding. Not very many people think highly of smallfolk, Harry. You would have to kill many men, obliterate entire castles, and burn towns to the ground." He tutted under his breath. "And you'd have to be quite arrogant to think it possible at all."

Harry sat quietly, staring at his uncle. Tyrion didn't understand. He had a _destiny. _

"Do you know what would happen if the nobility were lowered to smallfolk, and the smallfolk were raised to nobility?" Tyrion asked.

He didn't wait for an answer. "The same things that happen now. The very same injustice... and if _everyone_ was equal, if we _all_ had equal rights?" He shook his head. "It would be chaos, my clever little nephew. Forced equality - what _you_ propose - is no equality at all. And if, by some magical means, we all decided to grant land and titles to every man in Westeros, there would still be oppression... just of a different sort. Men would still go to war - over land or slights, and a whole other myriad of things we fight over. Women would still be raped, and children would still die, only there would be no one to make order of the chaos. I imagine there would be non stop war, in fact. Men are very fickle creatures, Harry, the common man more than most... hopefully one day you will learn this for yourself."

Harry listened to his uncle's words, but he didn't believe them. Tyrion had been belittled his whole life by all manner of men - by the lowborn and the highborn and all the people in between. It made sense that he would think as he did.

"Where did all this come from... why are you telling me this?" Harry questioned. He had only meant to have a few words with his uncle, not a philosophical debate.

"If you had stayed here in King's Landing for the rest of your childhood, I might've been able to mitigate the effects of your horrid upbringing... you do seem to _listen_, unlike most others, but now?" He shook his head. "Now, you're going straight to the lion's den, and you can't afford to have these childish notions, not when Lord Tywin plans to make you his heir. Best to curb them now, before something regrettable happens."

He grew quiet for a long while. "Beware my father, Harry," he said at last. "His reputation is well earned."

He leaned forward, his heavy brow shadowing his eyes, and his mood changed all at once.

"Have I ever told you about Tysha?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"No," Harry said, baffled by the change in his uncle's posture. "No, you haven't." But when he looked into Tyrion's eyes, he _saw_. Saw a girl barely older than he was, beautiful and solemn, almost of an age with Aeryn.

"I loved her," Tyrion admitted. "Thought I loved her. She was beautiful - dark haired and slender, with skin as soft as down. She wasn't much older than you are now." He looked at Harry with sharp eyes. "About of an age with your friend, that pretty little silver haired girl." There was a warning in there, somewhere. "I'll spare you the boring details, but I married Tysha, and for the first time in my short life, I was happy. My father never approved of me, never showed me the same consideration he showed Jaime or Cersei."

He grabbed his cup and peered into its empty depths. "Even if it was a lie, my happiness, it was a brilliant one, one I would have lived till my dying day. But it _was_ a lie, and Lord Tywin, my dear old Father, had my wife - a fucking _whore_ - service his guards. Gave her a silver for each one and made me watch - there must have been a hundred of them, a hundred and a half even."

Harry was stunned into silence. That was cruelty of a kind he'd never witnessed, never even fathomed.

"By the time she was finished, she had made a very small fortune - there was so much coin spilling through her fingers she had to carry it in her skirts. She never once screamed. Neither in pleasure nor in pain. Not even once." He tilted his head in thought, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Then my noble Lord Father made me lay with her, right there in the hall. 'Pay her with a Dragon,' he said. 'Lannisters are worth more.' I was three and ten.. just a boy." He looked into the disgust working its way across Harry's face and gave a smile of satisfaction. "_That_ is the man you're going to foster with. He is as cruel as he is ruthless, and clever to boot. And did I mention he was cruel?"

Who was worse? The whore for tricking Tyrion, or Lord Tywin for humiliating him? Was Tysha why Tyrion spent so much time with whores?

"Now, if you will excuse me - I'm in a brothel and I've had no whores. That is a problem that must be rectified." He left his seat and waddled over to the door. There was no one outside when he opened it, but when he leaned across the threshold and gave a shout, a woman seemed to appear before him as if she had stepped out of the shadows. It was the same woman from earlier.

"Are you ready, my lord?" Her voice was silky, and there was a foreign lilt to it.

"Beyond ready." He led her back into the room, watching her intently. "That girl of yours," Tyrion said to Harry, "what is her name?"

"Aeryn," he replied absently, eyes staring into space. He was thinking of Lord Tywin, and his decision to endorse Lord Kevan. _'I **am** foolish. Is it too late to declare for the Reach?'_

The woman looked at him then, her gaze questioning. "My Aeryn? Silver and gold hair, big dark eyes, terrible temper?"

Harry laughed, but it was weak, distracted. "Yes, that's her." He finally turned his attention to the woman. "You're her mother?" The resemblance was certainly there.

She ignored his question. "Well, well, well..." She looked him up an down. "A bit young, but - had I known it was a prince Aeryn was always rushing out to see I might've taught her a few more tricks."

"Tricks, er..." _'How do I address such a high-priced whore?'_ There was a fortune in Tyrion's coin purse. "Ma'am?" he ventured. His voice was hollow though, and he spoke only for proprieties sake.

"Oh listen to him!" She laughed. "_Ma'am_. Aren't you just a sweet little thing. Isn't he, Tyrion?" She rubbed her fingers through Tyrion's curly blond locks.

"Sure he is, but I'm not paying you to compliment my nephew."

The woman had a penchant for ignoring people, because she payed Tyrion no mind. "Amaerys of Lys, at your service." She gave a curtsy, and he pretended not to notice the swell of her breast as she dipped, or the way they jiggled as she moved, bouncing beautifully. He could see why Tyrion liked her.

"You should visit me when you're older. I can show you all my _little tricks._" She winked and parted her lips over so slightly. Her tongue snaked out, danced lasciviously around the edges of her mouth. "For the right coin, of course," she said with an impish grin. "We Lysene are _masters_ of lovemaking."

He shuddered, a blush creeping up his neck to spill over his cheeks, and for a brief, breathless moment, he forgot his uncle's words. His mind filled with images of women who looked like Amaerys, all blonde hair and big breasts, writhing against silken sheets, and his blush deepened. He doubted he would ever pay a woman for _that_, but she made it sound enticing.

"Next time you see your friend," Tyrion interrupted, his voice slick, "tell her that her mother is well worth the price."

And then the cruelties surfaced again, swarmed his sight, and it was all he could do not to scream at the injustice of it all.

Tyrion wanted a reaction, but Harry didn't give it to him, so he tried again. "Mayhaps one day she could learn the trade?" he continued. "She's quite beautiful I've heard." His eyes shone with menacing amusement, and he almost grinned when he saw anger flicker across Harry's face.

Joffrey had said something to that effect. _'She's not a whore_ _**yet**_._'_

Amaerys gave a coy laugh and slapped at Tyrion, but said nothing to defend her daughter.

Harry was appalled. He realized that she probably _did_ want her daughter to become a whore, had probably trained her for it. There was little else she could aspire to. No other occupation would grant her as much coin, and with coin came a certain _prestige_. _'And that's what it all boils down to, doesn't it? Coin.'_ That was the difference between the highborn and the lowborn.

Coin and prestige.

He frowned at his uncle, wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing left to say. There were no words that could assuage Tyrion's ego, none that could make him see what Harry saw, make him understand what Harry dreamed of. For a second he thought to strike his uncle as he had struck Joffrey, strike the smug, condescending smirk right off his face, but the urge passed, and he was all the more perturbed by his violent desire.

His uncle's statement from earlier sounded in his ears. 'You put a lowborn girl before your own blood?'_ 'Not a 'lowborn' girl.. just a girl... with no one else to look out for her.'_

He left his uncle to his vices, and bid both he and Amaerys goodbye as he left the room. The conversation had given him a lot to think about.


	5. The Mother and The Maiden

**AN**: This is the last chapter of the 'intro' arc. Read at your own peril. Thanks to Jarik again for his help, and a big shout out to Celestin for devising the premise for this story.

**Impressed Reader - **I'm made of sterner stuff than that. A critique won't make me stop writing... I'm not some pansy. It helps, actually. I would ask that you create an account, so I can actually reply to you, though.

**Disclaimer: **I own neither Harry Potter nor A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones.

* * *

When Harry arrived at the keep the hunting party had already returned. The second he crossed the outer bailey he was mobbed by a group of servants, mostly women, hemming and hawing. It took a passing Gold Cloak to make sense of their stunted speech.

The King, it seemed, had called for a feast. _'How surprising,'_ Harry thought.

The frazzled group harried him towards the keep proper, worried by the numerous preparations, faces almost forlorn. He thought they would better serve elsewhere, rather than herding him to his rooms like some hapless cow.

He knew the way to Maegor's Holdfast just fine.

He saw small clusters of men conversing in the courtyards as he walked, most all with a sword at their hip. The booming voice of a ser caught his attention as he passed by, the men around him laughing raucously. He looked to see a tawny-haired man bigger even than Sandor, near a foot taller than all the men around him, muscled like a hero of old, a brown and white brindled boar on his surcoat._ 'A knight of house Crakehall,'_ he thought. _'A knight of the Westerlands.'_

There were women about as well, noble women, huddled around limestone benches and strolling through lush gardens, their braided hair decorated with flowers. They hailed him as he passed, but he could do little more than wave in return - the servants alloted him time for nothing else, obsequious but insistent.

"Please, Prince Harry," an older matron begged, her face square and wrinkled, black hair peppered with gray. "You must _hurry."_

The halls were smattered with people; lords, ladies, and servants alike. A group of courtiers lounged in an alcove brightened by waning sun and rising fire, old men all, their backs hunched with age. He passed a gathering of his father's 'drinking men' - two older knights, their glory days long passed, Thoros, who he greeted with a nod, and the colorful exiled Summer Prince, Jalabhar Xho, his goldenheart bow held tight in his black fist. He noticed Jaime and two others of the Kingsgaurd - Ser Blount, the cur, and the short, blond Ser Preston - assembled in the well-lit chamber that led to the Holdfast.

Alik met him outside his chambers. The faithful servant had already set out an outfit; a black tunic with puffed sleeves embroidered with gold vines, and tight black satin breeches. He dressed as quickly as he could, stripping to his underclothes in seconds flat. Alik had also set out a bowl and cloth to wash with, and wash he did, scrubbing away the dust and grime from his earlier exertions.

Romelda the Maid, a slight, brown-haired woman near twice his age, came to his rooms as he was dressing, no doubt sent by his mother, with comb and brush to set his wavy hair to rights. The freckled girl braided the hair aside his face in two thick ropes, and tied them together at the back of his head, letting the rest hang free to fall about his shoulders. She tried to decorate his hair with golden flakes, but his glare stopped her.

He would entertain _some_ of his mother's fancies, but not _all._

Harry left his rooms and exited the Holdfast to find Ser Barristan waiting for him at the bridge .

"You're a few minutes late, my prince," the old knight told him as they crossed over and made way to the Great Hall.

Not for the first time, Harry pondered Barristan's loyalty to Aerys. Ser Barristan was perhaps the finest knight he knew, a man of honor and distinction - Harry had been allowed a peek at the old knight's page in the Book of Brothers, just the tiniest glimpse, and saw written account of but a small number of his noble deeds. And he had heard stories enough, some from the man himself; he, a truer knight than most, had served the Mad King - served him faithfully. Even when Aerys had slipped down the slick slopes of madness, Ser Barristan remained true to his vows.

He had been called to make a choice, a choice between what was right and what was easy, and he had done what **he** felt was right. But had he ever doubted himself?

Harry didn't think so. He almost opened his mouth to ask, but thought better of it. This was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.

He wondered why he had never thought to ask before.

"A prince arrives _precisely_ when he needs to Ser Barristan, you know that."

Perhaps if he kept his tone light, made jokes and jests, the weight of his thoughts would lessen.

Ser Barristan gave a throaty laugh, but sobered quickly. "I heard tale of your match with Joffrey," he said. "You needn't have _humiliated_ him. You're made of finer things than that." He looked down at Harry, and the years that shone through his eyes made his gaze heavier than intended. "But you're allowed a few missteps here and there, I should think," he said after a pause. "Most every boy has a temper."

The knight knew him well. It was his father's blood, Ser Barristan had once told him, that gave him his temper. But then he had thought a second longer, and said that perhaps his passion was born of both his parents. He had been laughing as he said it.

"I shouldn't have let him goad me," Harry allowed. "But I'm not sorry."

"And I would not ask it of you. He must've said something quite foul, to rile you up like that. Ser Aron said you would've beat him worse had he not stopped you."

"It wasn't just what Joffrey said," he admitted. "I've other things on my mind as well. Not the fostering," he added, before Ser Barristan could suggest it. "I'm just... worried about the future. About my place in..." He waved his arms wide. "**T****his**." King's Landing. Westeros. The world.

"Worried? Do you foresee some great conflict?" the old knight said with a laugh. "Clear your mind of worries. Erase all doubts. You're but nine, not yet old enough to call yourself even _almost_ a man grown. You've years before you."

They came upon the Great Hall, flanked to the left and the right by trains of servants carrying trays laden with foodstuffs through the open doors. Harry tasted garlic in the air, inhaled the aroma of onions and spices, meats and vegetables, and sweet honey and jams.

"One day your path will open before you." Ser Barristan patted his shoulder. "One is opening before you now - you need only walk it." He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "I believe you capable. As do others."

His path. His destiny. They were one and the same. Mayhaps Ser Barristan had the right of it. Instead of worrying about it, perhaps it was best to simply let it come. Destiny had a way of working like that.

"Lord Tywin is a harsh man," the knight continued, "but he is gifted in administration and nigh impossible to impress, and **h****e** is making you his heir. Chose you over Lord Tyrion, and over his brothers and their get as well. Be that for now - the heir to Casterly Rock. Worry not of shadows waiting to pounce in distant times. Be yourself, and you will be ready for whatever might arise."

Ser Barristan had quite a lot of faith in him, he realized. He would endeavor to prove it well founded.

With that thought, he entered the Great Hall, walked along the red carpet framed by massive columns, braziers at the base of each, to stand before the raised daïs and the Iron Throne.

His father sat at his throne, crown tilted just so, his black doublet sewn with beads. The thousands of swords framing him, black and rusted from age, seemed as if to slice open his fat belly, When Harry saw his father, he thought of Elia's words. _"Smile at the bodies__."_ What had she meant?

His mother sat beside the King, locks woven about her head like some sort of fantastical halfhelm, inlaid with crimson rubies. She was magnificently beautiful, as beautiful as he had ever seen her, her hair shining like spun gold. His darling sister, Myrcella, sat before the daïs, and looked much the same, the gold satin fabric of her gown and skirts set with pearls. Joffrey stood off to the side with Sandor at his back, and he too looked regal, clad in the colors of both mother and father; a red velvet doublet slashed with black and flecked with gold, and striped black breeches.

The Hall was perhaps a third full. There was the small Council, Ser Kevan and his retinue, Sers Lyle Crakehall; Strongboar, they called him; Harwick of the knightly House Vikary, Benningtyn of Moreland, and Wenfryd and their squires, most all draped in the colors of their houses, sigils emblazoned upon chest and back. Ser Lyle was the same massive knight he'd seen in the yard; now that he and Sandor were in the same room, he could see that Ser Lyle was indeed bigger, taller of height and wider of shoulder, with a big square head and thick neck, like the boar etched into the cloth of his surcoat. The plain-faced Ser Wenfryd, a fine archer if he ever knew one, bore the arms of House Yew, a golden longbow on white between two red flanches. Ser Benningtyn, a lithe, sharp faced man, was draped in the green and russet of Moreland. Harwick, descendant of Reyne bastards, he had heard Sandor mock, bore the white and red of his house, his broad chest covered with a quartered sigil; a red boar on white and a silver lion rampant regardant on red, beneath a gold bend sinister.

There were the Lords and Ladies of Chyttering, Rykker, Rosby, Mallery, Massey and dozens more still, and their retinues as well, all clothed in lively finery of varying qualities and styles; silk and satin gowns scented with lemon and jasmine, velvet doublets decorated with sweeping patterns, and vests woven of gold, bronze and silver threads.

His father announced the fostering at Casterly Rock to the assembled courtiers, joked that his blood would rule from the Stormlands in the south to the Westerlands in the west, and perhaps the Vale of Arryn as well. At the King's proclamation, his mother's face turned to granite, became hard and unforgiving, her displeasure apparent in the tightness of her lips and jaw. But Lord Jon was pleased, his wrinkled face spread in a smile, and the gathered nobility clapped politely, applauding as if they truly cared. He heard Ser Lyle's booming voice proclaim that the 'Black Prince' had become a golden one instead, heard him joke to his fellow knights that they need devise a new name for Joffrey.

Harry hadn't known that they called him such.

They dined in splendor. Instead of one large table, the hall was decked with dozens of smaller round tables of weirwood painted with molten copper. There was such suckled pig as to feed an army, and honeyed duck too, along with river pike poached in almond milk, roasted fowl crusted with herbs and fiery spices, all manner of soups and stews, and sweet bread baked to a fine crisp. They had wine enough to drown a thousand men - a golden vintage from the arbor - and mead and ale as well. Even Harry had a few cups, felt the sweet wine burn in his stomach and muddle his thoughts.

He reveled in the affair, tried to enjoy what might be his last grand meal in King's Landing, tried to ignore, just for a while, the heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. He spoke with most every lord that he knew, complimented their ladies no matter how old or fat, and when the time came for dancing, he and Myrcella twirled around the floor as if mad, laughing all the while. He worried for her, worried fiercely, and as he was pulled away to dance with his mother, her golden gown shimmering, he saw Joffrey glaring at him from beside a great brazier. The flames flickered aside him, made shadows amble across his face.

Harry glared right back. Damn what Tyrion said. There wasn't an ounce of good in Joffrey... he only need look in his eyes to see.

"You must apologize to your brother, sweetling," his mother said softly; he could barely hear her over the music.

"I'm sorry mother, but I cannot. I'd sooner..." He cast about for something suitably grim. "I'd sooner cut off my own foot than apologize to him."

"_Harry!_" she exclaimed, tone admonishing. She stilled, looked down at him with pursed lips, and tucked her hand beneath his chin to lift his eyes to meet hers. Her fingers were cold. "You _will_ apologize to your brother."

"I will not. He threatened my sister, and he threatened my friend."

Cersei's gaze turned shrewd, one finely sculpted eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "That's not what he told me," she said. "So which of you is lying?"

Harry was affronted, and it showed on his face, for Cersei's features lightened. "Have you ever known me to lie, mother?"

She graced him with a gentle smile, grasped his hands and began dancing anew. The tune was slow. "Omit truths perhaps, but I've never known you to lie, not to me." She looked about for Joffrey, and found him dancing with one of Lord Renfred's doe-eyed daughters. "He said you threatened to geld him," she continued, turning her gaze back to Harry.

"I did." He admitted.

She sighed. "No, no, no, my love. You shouldn't say such things, not to your brother, not even in anger." Her eyes searched his face and saw not a hint of regret. "You feel such a threat was justified?"

"_Mother_, he threatened **Myrcella**. My sister. Your daughter. _His_ sister."

She dismissed his concerns with a shake of her head. "Fret not, my bold little lion. No harm will befall Myrcella. I'm sure it was but a jest - in poor taste, perhaps, but a jest nonetheless. Joffrey wouldn't harm family."

Harry wasn't so sure, but he knew better than to try and convince his mother of that. In some ways, she was more enamored with Joffrey than she was with him. She never gave Joffrey the odd, heavy looks she gave him, was delighted by his cruel brand of willfulness. But Joffrey didn't bear her affections as Harry did, pushing her away more oft than not.

"And what of my friend?" He stood on his tip-toes and spun her about.

"The whore, you mean?"

He opened his mouth to protest, brow furrowed in anger - she was _not_ a whore - but his mother pressed a finger to his lips, shushing him.

"Whore, whore's daughter, there is very little difference." She lifted her hand and stroked his hair. "You and he are not so different, my love. Both so _willful_..."

"We're as alike as night and day," Harry said, resolute.

And how did everyone know _who_ Aeryn was? He could admit to himself, he had done a terrible job covering his tracks - had stopped bothering, after a while - but not only did they know of Aeryn, but they knew of her mother as well.

"Perhaps," she replied. "But are not night and day two sides of the same coin? He's your _brother, _sweetling. You and he will rule this realm someday."

"... Is Uncle Tyrion not _your_ brother, mother?"

She dropped her hands and frowned at him, body tensed, and for a second she looked as if she wanted to slap him. _'She's beautiful even when she's angry.' _But the moment passed. She relaxed and the tension left her.

"That vile little creature is no brother of _mine,_" she said quietly, but vehemently. "And you will _never_ speak such words to me again." She leaned down closer to his face. "_Never,_" she reiterated.

Harry thought of bitter Tyrion wasting gold at Chataya's brothel, and wondered what it must have been like for him at Casterly Rock. Had his mother hated him as much then? Did **he** drink to forget his past?

"I'm sorry mother," he said, voice somber.

He was saddened by the malice she held for Tyrion, but he genuinely disliked upsetting her. She was his mother, and that was one thing he had no memories of. He grinned up at her and took her hands in his.

"Let us not speak of what neither would like to hear. I won't mention Tyrion, and you won't mention Aeryn."

"So that's her name... she must be a beautiful girl, for you to be so defensive."

"Quite beautiful," he admitted. "But her beauty is naught but a small pebble; your's mother, is a _mountain_." But one day, he could imagine that people would speak of Aeryn's beauty as they had spoken of the Targaryen's of old - mayhaps even Sheira Seastar herself?

His mother laughed. "You've been reading poetry? That is not a habit of warriors, my love." She looked up in thought. "I've never known Jaime to read _anything_. Nor Robert, for that matter."

"Jaime was never a prince, was he? Nor was father."

They danced a while longer before his mother moved on, and Harry was tossed around the room to the same old and fat women he had complimented before, and a few of their fat and ugly daughters as well. Some were pretty enough - Lord Staunton's daughter especially, with her round, freckled face, full lips and dark, curled hair - but she wasn't very bright, and spoke sparingly, and only when addressed. A 'proper' lady, some men would say, but Harry just found her boring.

The dinner drew to a close when the first of the lords passed out, his face landing right in a bowl of peas and carrots. His lady wife was humiliated, and the man, fatter even than his father, was so heavy he could scarcely be moved. Ser Lyle, though, lifted the man as if he was half his size, hefting him over his broad shoulders, and carried him from the hall.

On his way back to his chambers, Harry came upon Alik standing at the crossing to Maegor's Holdfast, staring down at the spikes, his tunic lightly stained with ale. His skin bore the slightest flush.

"Alik, I have a task for you."

The gangly servant fell into step beside him with nary a word. They crossed over the bridge and Harry nodded to the guardsmen at his post in the entranceway.

"I want you and a few other servants to collect some of the dragonbone from the cellars - I'd like to have a few bows carved. And hilts too," he said after a time, "for swords I might commission in the future."

Maester Wulfric had told him that across the Narrow Sea, passed the Free Cities, there lived men, the Dothraki, who prized dragonbone bows beyond any other. They were stronger, the maester had explained, but dragonbone was rare, and scarily expensive because of it. Harry wondered why his father did not make use of the dragon skulls gathering dust in he cellars. At the very least he could sell them.

But if the King had no use of them, then Harry would take them for himself.

"Of course, my prince," said Alik, and he bowed before heading to his own quarters in the Keep.

Harry had two weeks to get his affairs in order, his father had said, and then he was off to the Rock.

* * *

As he lay in bed later that night, his chambers dimly illuminated by the twinkling star light spilling through his window, he thought hard on Tyrion's words.

_"So you want equality... and yet you still think yourself their better... how could you lead them if you stand among them?__"_

In that instance, his uncle was right. He couldn't stand among them, could he? Not if he meant to be himself. He was cut from an entirely different cloth; like the difference between castle-forged steel and mummer's iron. Between a wizard and a muggle.

He loosed a sigh into the darkness.

_'I would never be able to stand among them.'_ Even if he _had _been born the son of a baker, or a tanner, or a farmhand, he still had magic. _'I will always stand above,'_ he thought, and he summoned fire to his hands, made it dance between his fingers. _'By steel and fire my father made himself a king, and I, sired through his loins, a prince. And the Stranger made me a wizard.'_

Tyrion's voice sounded again. "Don't_ be ridiculous. They love you because you're a prince. Because your name means something...Men are very fickle creatures, Harry, the common man more than most..."_

But he didn't think men were fickle, not exactly. They were _followers_. And the smallfolk followed him as he was, not yet a man grown. The solution, then, was frighteningly simple. To make the nobility follow him as the smallfolk did -

He would make his name mean something _more_.

He fell asleep with that thought on his mind, fell into dreams both wondrous and worrying.

He dreamed of dark shapes sweeping through cities leaving chilling mists in their wake, of beasts howling at the moon, giving chase through shadowed forests. He dreamed of war and love and loss, men and women weeping over their fallen, and a girl with burning eyes, her hair kissed by fire. He dreamed of celebrations, dazzling lights bursting in the night sky, and people drunk with laughter. He dreamed of life. He dreamed of death.

And he dreamed of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Tobho Mott's shop sat at the top of the tortuous Street of Steel, past every other armorer in the city, at the summit of Visenya's Hill in the shadow of the Great Sept. Made of plaster paneling decked with rows of timber at the juncture of each floor, it stood tall and strong above the street, looming over the other buildings, the smoke from the forge rising above like a great black fist. The double doors were adorned with a weirwood and ebony carving of a hunting scene: men encircled about some manner of cervid, tri-pronged spears brandished to strike. Two stone knights stood to either side of the doors, armored in rich carmine. One was fashioned after a griffon, its sinister beak curved like an arakh. The other was modeled to resemble a unicorn, the jutting horn sharpened to a fine point.

Harry took a second to admire the detail in the carvings before entering the shop proper.

His usual retinue of guards, ten strong and mounted atop rounseys, waited outside. Ser Brenden led them, his black breastplate polished to a soft sheen. They assembled themselves around the two heavy carts laden with dragon skulls; they were massive things, black and gleaming, with horns as long as Harry was tall, and jagged teeth like rows of daggers. It had taken a team of draft horses to pull the carts down the cobbled streets, and twice they'd had to reset a wheel damaged by the uneven roads.

Smallfolk young and old had admired the skulls as they rode from the Keep down River Row to Fishmonger's Square, pointed and whispered as if speaking loudly would summon the dragons back to life. Harry had waved to them from within the contingent of guards encircling him, and they sang his graces, but he couldn't forget what Tyrion had said.

_"__They love you because you're a prince. Because your name means something."_ _'But not just because I'm a prince,'_ he had thought as he waved. _'Otherwise Joffrey would be hailed as I am. There's more to it.'_

Ser Lyle and Ser Wenfryd accompanied him as well, following him into the shop. Ser Kevan had tasked them to keep an eye on him while he went about the city. The Lannister lord had little faith in the Gold Cloaks, considered them nothing more than drivel. Ser Wenfryd had explained that the City Watch of Lannisport were _true_ guardsmen, that they put the Gold Cloaks to shame, that they drilled as knights did, and were disciplined enough to fight a pitched battle if need be. The Gold Cloaks, he had said, couldn't possibly compare.

Inside the shop was sweltering. It smelled of molten metal and burning charcoal, and there was a bitter taste to the air. The room was lit by black iron braziers, some along the floor, others hanging from the oaken rafters. The walls were lined with swords, axes, spears, and shields, some banded oak, some iron, and others yet steel, tinted most every color Harry could think of. There was a wide ebony table in the center of the room, littered with papers, and beneath it sat more arms, and slabs of steel and iron. A set of ebony cabinets sat against the far wall, bracketing an open doorway leading to a back porch. Through it, Harry saw the forge and the heat rising from it in almost invisible waves. There was a black-haired boy there, older than Harry and broad chested, hammering away at a red-hot slab of metal.

Tobho, cloaked in red and purple robes, stood at the table. He watched Harry as he entered, expression neutral, his eyes flickering to Ser Lyle and Wenfryd for but a moment.

"Good morrow, sir." Harry walked around the shop, trailing his fingers along the steel hanging on the walls. He stopped at a short sword with a wicked curve in the blade. It had but a single edge. Even in the bleary firelight, the steel glistened.

"Good morrow," Tobho returned. His eyes followed Harry around the store. "A falchion," he said, indicating the sword. "Not very popular amongst you Westerosi."

"That's because no man is fool enough to try and slash through plate. Now, that sword there," Ser Wenfryd said, pointing to a sort, thin blade on the opposite wall, "would be useful."

The blacksmith's neutral expression soured, face curled in irritation. "All my steel is _useful,_" he said to the knight, and folded his arms across his chest. "It's the best in the city." He turned his attention back to Harry. "That's why you've come to me."

Harry eyed the massive banded oak shields - they were almost as tall as he was, some even taller, and when he tried to lift one, he could scarcely move it, unless he use both hands. Ser Lyle walked over, his square face set in a grin, gripped a shield in his massive hand, and hoisted it up as if it were but air. _'Strongboar indeed,'_ Harry thought.

"Can you carve dragonbone?" he asked without preamble, looking back to Tobho. "I've been told the blacksmiths of Qohor are the best in the known world."

He said the right words, for Tobho almost smiled. "You were told truth. The blacksmiths of Qohor are renowned throughout all of Essos." He unfolded his arms and moved towards Harry. "You have dragonbone, you say?"

"Yes," he said with a sharp nod and a half-smile. "And a great deal of it. I've also been told dragonbone bows shoot further than wooden bows." He ceased his inspection of the shields and turned his full attention to Tobho.

"That they do," replied the blacksmith. "But it is difficult and tedious, carving dragonbone into bows, and men rarely get the practice."

"Have you the practice?" asked Harry.

The smith nodded. "I do."

"So I'll leave the skulls with you then." He meandered over to the short sword Wenfryd had pointed out, and admired the ivory ridges chiseled into the hilt and the sapphire gems in the pommel. The guard and hilt were flecked with swirling patterns of gold. "How long would it take to make just one?" he asked the smith.

He wanted to give one to Aeryn. It had been his desire to bring the Nameless with him to Casterly Rock, but after Tyrion's story, he wasn't quite sure if taking _all_ of them was wise. It would make a good gift, he thought.

"Just one?" the smith repeated. "A week, perhaps longer. As I said, it is a tedious process. A special steel is required to cut dragon bone."

Harry smiled. "That's fine. I'll have the skulls wheeled around to the back of the shop." He thumped the thin head of a rapier - it was extremely narrow, made for thrusting and nothing else. He had never seen a knight wield such a blade. "And the cost?" he asked, turning back to the armorer.

"Fifty silvers a bow," the blacksmith said after a moment.

_'That's reasonable,'_ Harry thought. He thumbed a dragon out his coin purse and tossed it to the smith. "That should be enough to start."

The boy working the forge entered the shop then, skin darkened by soot, short black hair arranged haphazardly about his head. He neither noticed Harry nor the knights at first, and set about collecting sheets of metal from the black cabinets.

"Who really works the metal here, you or the boy, blacksmith?" Ser Lyle said, his voice loud in the quiet of the shop. He was joking, but he annoyed Tobho Mott all the same.

"Mind your jests, _ser." _

The burly knight laughed. "I meant no offense blacksmith. I've heard naught but good mentioned of your steel. But I wonder about the weight of these shields."

"You fight in plate, yes? Those are for men without that benefit. Leather can't stop a sword; those shields can."

Harry walked to the back of the shop and approached the black-haired young man. Behind him, Ser Wenfryd engaged Tobho in a discussion about bodkin points and broadheads.

"Hello."

The boy turned around startled, blue eyes wide with alarm, and they widened further still when they recognized the speaker. His eyes were very familiar, Harry thought. And the shape of his face, the width of his jaw... he looked like Renly. A dirtier, smellier, younger Renly.

"Um.. ahem..." The boy cleared his throat and gave an awkward bow. "Good morrow, erm, Prince, sir."

"Prince Harry is fine." He said amicably. "You needn't be so nervous. Nor call me sir; I'm younger than you, I think." Harry peered out into the rear yard. It was plenty wide enough for the skulls to fit. "And good morrow to you as well," he said as he turned back to face the youth. "What's your name?"

"Gendry, my prince."

Harry noticed the lack of surname. _'He's a bastard... working for an armorer like Tobho Mott?'_ He entertained the thought that Gendry mayhaps was a bastard sired by his father. He certainly looked the part. He knew of his half-brother Edric Storm, at Storm's End, his father's only legitimate bastard, and his possible half-sister Mya in the Vale, but no one cared to mention his father's other unacknowledged bastards. Just as well he could have been the son of some other black-haired, blue-eyed noble.

But the resemblance to Renly, and thus his father, Robert, was uncanny.

"What is it like, being an apprentice to a blacksmith?" he asked, truly curious. "I imagine it's rather hard work."

Gendry had set out some of the metal sheets atop the cabinets. Harry rapped his knuckles against one, and it gave a hollow ring.

"Very hard," Gendry agreed. "But I like it well enough. I like making things; taking a sheet of iron and turning it to steel." He grabbed the pile of scrap metal and carried them out the doorway to the forge. "It sings when you hit it right."

Harry followed him outside and leaned against the frame of the open doorway, his shoulder propped against the wood. "My maester tells me that blacksmiths in Qohor know how to reforge Valyrian steel. Is it true?"

"I ain't seen it done, but my master mentioned it once or twice." He set the metal down and grasped a sheet with a pair of thick tongs, and dipped it into the molten fires of the forge. He worked silently, but something Harry had said piqued his curiosity. "You've got your own maester?"

"Well, he isn't _my_ maester. He conducts my lessons. Lessons in language, and history, and astronomy, and geography... warfare, economics, and a whole list of other things. The Grandmaester used to handle my studies, but since Maester Wulfric has come to the castle, he's instructed me." He paused in thought. "I suppose he _is_ my maester. He doesn't tutor anyone else, as far as I know."

"That's a lot of learning," said Gendry. He looked up from his ministrations. "Is it hard, all that learning? All the books, and lessons?"

"No... it's not hard at all. Quite easy, actually, and some of it is really interesting. But -"

He was cut off as Ser Brenden burst into the shop, his expression worried. Ser Wenfryd was so startled he had pulled his bow from his back and notched and arrow before the Gold Cloak could even speak.

Brenden cast his eyes about the room and saw Harry standing in the back. "My prince," he began, walking closer. "There is talk of a riot near the Dragonpit." He licked his lips. "The people say Prince Joffrey was attacked."

Harry thought he might have heard wrong. "Attacked? _Joffrey_?" What was his brother doing near the dragon pit? There was nothing there for him.

And who had attacked him?

"Yes, my prince, and they are saying that... they are saying..." The knight looked down at his feet, despondent.

Ser Brenden was not one known for dramatics, nor had he ever shown such reluctance to speak. He clearly thought what he was about to say would cause Harry distress. _Great_ distress, judging by his demeanor.

Dread grew in Harry's gut, burned its way up his chest.

"Spit it out!" Ser Lyle bellowed, annoyed with the Gold Cloak's silence.

"They say it was children who attacked him. A group of four. Two young boys, an older lad -" he took a deep breath, "and a girl, with gold and silver hair."

Harry had never before been gripped by such fear, by such _worry._

_'No. **No.**'_

It wasn't them. It wasn't her. It _couldn't_ be. He said it in his head as a mantra, repeated it to himself as he rushed from the shop with nary a word, pushed past Ser Brenden and climbed atop Flatfoot, the three knights hot on his heels. He kicked his horse into a gallop, sat forward in the saddle with his feet pressed hard against the stirrups, magic and emotion bleeding over into his horse, urging him faster, and _faster_ still. As they rode down the Street of Sister's, men and women shouting as they barreled passed, hooves thundering, as they maneuvered through the city square at the base of Visenya's Hill, through throngs gathered around preaching Septons and Septas, Harry kept that thought in mind, held to it as tight as he dared.

_'It's not them.'_ He hoped with all his heart it wasn't, prayed to the Father and the Maiden and the Stranger, and the old gods as well. _'It's not them.'_

* * *

Fat Lip was dead.

His body lay face down in the middle of the street, bright hair tangled atop his head, near split in two from shoulder to hip. A great pool of blood spread about him, a deep, deep red, like liquid rubies, cascading down Rhaenys's Hill. Mumbly lay next to him, and for a brief, frantic moment, Harry thought he too had perished, but as he dropped from his horse and moved closer, he saw the boy's chest rise and fall.

_'Thank the Gods.' _

A small crowd framed the scene. Some of the people jeered, and some wept, Harry could hardly hear them, their voices distorted and muffled, drowned beneath the quickening beat of his heart. '_Where are the others?'_ Goldcloaks kept the crowd at bay, iron cudgels crossed to form a wall of steel. There were ten of them arranged in a loose circle, and three others congregated closer to the massive bronze doors of the Dragonpit, stomping and kicking _someone_. And there, just to the right of the doors, he saw Sandor's big black courser, and Joffrey's sandy-haired palfrey.

His dread became anger.

He moved as if in a dream, disbelieving of the carnage laid out before him. Ser Brenden gave a shout and the men standing further down the road all turned around, revealing Jerryd beneath their feet, beaten and bruised, curled into a ball.

But he didn't see Aeryn. Or Joffrey.

At some point he had started to run. He was aware, just barely, of Ser Lyle and Ser Wenfryd at his back, keeping pace. The three Gold Cloaks saw the look upon Harry's face and rushed to speak all at once, but a mighty shout from Ser Lyle quieted them. Harry barely spared the men a glance. It was as if they didn't exist.

He looked down at his lanky friend, sorrow in his eyes. "Jerryd?" he said, voice tentative.

The boy cracked open a swollen eye and tried to smile. "Har-" But he collapsed into a fit of coughs, and blood spilled out his mouth and down his face. "T-the p...pit." It was painful for him to speak. "_Aeryn," _he managed, voice heavy with meaning. "Go!"

Ser Brenden looked upon the poor, battered boy, and gave an order to retrieve a maester. Two men peeled away from the retinue and climbed atop their horses. There was a manse of maesters near the Dragon Gate only a few minutes ride down the other side of the hill. The three Gold Cloaks were taken as well, pushed and shoved to stand with the men forming a barricade against the crowd.

Harry continued into the pit at a rush. He had never seen the doors opened, not once, and yet they were open now, cracked just barely. There was space enough for three men abreast to squeeze through - when opened wide, thirty in line could fit through the doors, horses and all.

As he drew nearer, he heard faint screaming. It was the high-pitched scream of a girl, riddled with pain, and he heard laughter, and as he drew closer still, the steady sound of flesh smacking against flesh.

What he saw within would haunt him for years to come.

Allar Deem lay atop Aeryn, _thrusting_, one hand curled around her neck in a vice grip. Another man, Toret, plump with a weak chin, held her arms. She had been stripped naked, her legs were marred with dozens of leaking cuts. There was rubble all around, loose bits of rock and rusted metal links, and knee-high weeds growing up through the earth. Further into the room lay enormous chunks of stone from the collapsed domed ceiling. There was a single torch set beside the trio lashed to a stick wedged into the ground.

Aeryn saw him there standing in the door way and she tried to speak, tried to say _something_, but all she could manage were strangled breaths.

Harry felt his wrath take hold of him, felt it coursing through his veins, a great bursting flame like a dragon's roar. He needn't raise an arm, nor make any sort of gesture - his magic realized his intent, and manifest in Allar Deem. He wanted to make him _hurt_, had never wanted anything as much, had never felt a desire so strong.

Allar gave a great shout, and Toret laughed, thinking he'd dumped his seed.

"That was quick!" he joked, jowls dancing.

Allar Deem did not stop screaming, though. Toret's laughs tapered off, and fear worked its way onto his round face. Allar coughed up blood, his skin grew flushed, and when he rolled off Aeryn, bloodied cock waving in the air, his face was contorted in pure agony.

His blood was boiling.

Harry stalked closer and drew his dagger. It was his intent to see it plunged in the bastard's heart. He gripped the hilt tight, wrapped one hand around the other and raised the dagger high -

"Harry!" Ser Brenden shook him, and he snapped out of his mania.

Allar Deem stopped screaming.

Harry couldn't organize his thoughts. He felt _too much_. There was sadness and sorrow, enough to crush a man, and fury unlike he had ever known, beyond what he thought it possible to feel. He had thought he was angry at the tragic fates of Elia Martell and her children.

He could almost laugh. There was no comparison.

"Seize them," he said, voice hollow, dropping his arms to his sides. He didn't sound like himself. Didn't _feel _like himself.

Ser Lyle grabbed Toret about the neck, his hand so big it enclosed the flesh completely, and lifted him clear from the ground. The Gold Cloak struggled to free himself, and swung a hand at Lyle's face. The Strongboar weathered the blow with nigh a reaction, then buried his fist deep in Toret's gut, and the fat man seemed to deflate. He stopped struggling after that.

Ser Wenfryd walked over to Allar Deem, still lying prone against the ground, his breath thick and labored. The knight put a mailed boot atop his chest and leaned against his raised knee. "Don't try anything," he said, slipping an arrow from his quiver. "Or I'll bury this in your eye."

Harry looked to Aeryn, and felt tears gather in his eyes. This was _his_ fault. He had become their friend, he had humiliated Joffrey... he had made them targets. Made _her_ a target. _'I should never have gone out that day.'_ He felt guilt weigh him down, like an anvil, pressing into his shoulders, but more powerful than that was the fury, rising up to consume him. It burned like fire, like _ice_, spreading from gut to chest to mind, till all he saw was red, red, red.

Red like blood.

"Aeryn?" He whispered into the silence.

He approached slowly and knelt beside the thin girl. Her face was bruised and bloodied, her jaw was swollen, and her neck bore the marks of Allar's grip. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and he smoothed the hair away from her face, careful to mind her wounds. He took off his own doublet and draped it across her chest. Ser Brenden passed him his gold cloak without prompting, and he lay it across her legs.

"Ser Brenden, send men to Chataya's brothel. Ask for a woman called Amaerys. Bring her here." He sat there for several quiet moments, staring at her as she stared at him, dark purple locked on bright green. Neither spoke. Neither moved.

And then he heard a cough.

He glanced back and saw Sandor standing to the right of the door, wiping blood from his sword. _'Fat Lip's blood,'_ he thought. And he saw Joffrey standing in his shadow, a satisfied grin spread about his face. But as he peered upon Harry, he lost his grin, and apprehension wormed its way across his features.

Harry felt the rage take hold of him all over again. "_**You**_," he spat. He tried to stand, but Aeryn clenched his arm. He glanced down at her and whispered, "_It's okay." _

Reluctantly, she released him, and sat up with a wince. She slipped into the doublet and wrapped the cloak about her shoulders, fastening the cord at her neck. Harry helped her stand, and she wavered for a second, but held her ground. Still, she did not speak.

"What did I tell you, Joffrey?" Harry took a step towards his brother. He couldn't believe he was related to such a loathsome creature.

"I've done nothing wrong," Joffrey said, and he sounded like he believed it. "That stupid boy attacked me with his stick, so Sandor cut him down." He seemed oblivious to the menace in Harry's eyes. "I showed the rest mercy," he finished, and he smirked again. "I'd thought to put them in the crow cages."

Harry was aghast. What was _wrong_ with him? This was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness.

"You call this _mercy_?" His rage reached a crescendo, and it morphed his face into something fearsome.

Sandor stepped in front of Joffrey, recognized the murder written plain across his face, as if in big, bold lettering. It was a look the Clegane was familiar with; he had seen it on his brother's face too often to count. "Calm down now, Prince. Kinslaying ain't for you."

_'No,'_ Harry thought. _'Not kinslaying.'_ He caught Sandor's gaze and tore into his mind like a wild beast tearing into its prey, with neither remorse nor mercy. He had no desire to see memories. He just wanted to see him in pain.

Today, he had learned the truth of hate, and it was a black, ugly thing, corrupting all it touched.

Sandor winced, his face curling in misery, and he put a mailed hand to his head, as if that would stave off the torment. He couldn't speak, so great was his pain, so _sudden, _and his eyes widened, wrought with confusion and a dose of fear. With a powerful thud, he fell to a knee, blood leaking from his nose in crimson rivulets. Joffrey grew pale.

"Prince Harry." It was Ser Lyle. Harry ignored him. "Harry!"

Harry turned about, fury bared for all to see, face set in a snarl, and snapped the connection. Ser Lyle looked wary, extremely so, and Ser Wenfryd too bore signs of alarm.

"Gods be good," Ser Wenfryd murmured, eyeing Harry, his tone gravely serious. "The Father himself has called justice down on these men."

That was the only explanation he could muster, and the only one he was willing to believe.

Sandor, freed from the mental assault, gave a loud grunt and climbed back to his feet, his breath labored. He did not look at Harry again, and, pulling Joffrey behind him, left the Dragonpit in abject silence. Joffrey wisely kept his tongue, but nothing needed to be said - he had hurt Harry just as he intended.

Harry let them go - he had seen the truth of the matter in Sandor's mind, though it had done nothing to cool the scalding ire coursing through him. He couldn't blame a _dog_ for defending its master, could he?

_'Yes,'_ Harry thought. _'I can. But it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be just.'_

Fat Lip _had_ attacked Joffrey. He had been goaded yes, but he had attacked all on his own, so inherently _foolish_. And that was Fat Lip at his core. Harry had gotten too familiar, had allowed too much, and Fat Lip, young and ignorant, didn't truly understand what it meant to be a noble, what it meant to be royalty. He simply hadn't known...

The bright haired boy had snatched Jerryd's spear right out of his hands and charged Joffrey, and he had been slain by Sandor with but a single swipe of his sword. Mumbly ran after him, and set his fists to pounding against Sandor, and the burly man had struck him with the pommel of his blade, knocking him out. Jerryd and Aeryn had run, and Allar Deem and his men had given chase. Sandor only followed because _Joffrey_ followed. _'The dog and his master. May the Others take you.'_

"What of these two?" Ser Lyle asked, indicating the man still held firmly in his grip, and the disgraced Gold Cloak on the floor.

Toret gave a pitiful whimper, but Allar Deem could do little more than wheeze with Ser Wenfryd's foot weighing heavily against his chest.

What _of_ them? What would he do? What was _just_? When he pictured justice, he imagined his uncle, Stannis, his face permanently set in a grim expression.

"The penalty for rape is castration," Harry said. He had made a vow to the gods, and he was not going to break his oath. _'This is justice,'_ he thought. "I would see it done, here and now." He held his dagger tight, but Ser Lyle pulled out his own. It was more shortsword than dagger.

He looked to Aeryn. She was still staring at him; she seemed to have not even blinked.

"Wait!" Toret exclaimed, sweating profusely. He looked about to piss himself. "I didn't rape her, I just held her hands, I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Oh," Harry said. He paused in contemplation, seemed to reconsider his judgment, and Toret sagged with relief... but the fires still _burned._ "Cut off his hands then. Leave him his cock."

"No! N - "

Ser Lyle hit him across the mouth, a powerful blow that saw him dazed.

"Not that I mind," Wenfryd said. "As these men deserve punishment, but... this is a job for a gaoler... or Ser Illyn. Not us."

"Are you not a knight?" Harry asked, voice raw with emotion. "Are you not sworn to defend the innocent?"

"We are," Ser Lyle said. "And I would do as my prince bids."

"Thank you, Ser Lyle," Harry said, somehow remembering his courtesies. "I won't forget your service." He looked to Ser Wenfryd, eyes shadowed. "Will you serve me as well, ser?"

Wenfryd was still for a moment, but finally nodded his acquiescence. "I will."

Toret had gathered his wits as they spoke "No!" he screamed. "Please no, I beg you, don't-"

"You beg? _You beg?_ Did she not beg?" he demanded, gesturing to Aeryn. "Did she not plead? She is but two and ten, but a _girl_, and you held her down so this _man_," Harry said, pointing at Allar Deem, "could rape her!" His eyes found Aeryn again. There was such pain in her eyes he found tears gathering in his own. He looked back to Toret. "Tell me, do you have a daughter?"

He nodded meekly, whimpering.

"And how old is she?"

"Nine," he admitted.

"Do you love your daughter, Toret? Is she dear to you?"

"...yes," he moaned pitifully.

"And what would you do if you discovered a man had raped your daughter, while his friend just 'held her down' and waited to take his turn?" Toret said nothing. "**What would you do**?" Harry didn't recognize his own voice.

"I... I... " He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I would kill them," he finally admitted.

"Then this is a mercy, Toret, because you will walk away with your life." He looked upon Ser Lyle. "His hands, please."

Ser Lyle held his dagger above the torch, heating the metal. Ser Brenden appeared ill at ease.

"My prince," he began. "It is the wont of the king to have a man castrated for rape, to judge _any_ crime. They must be taken to the dungeons, and allowed a trial, or a chance to take the black."

"The black," Allar Deem choked out, voice rough. "I'll take the black."

"It's much the same," Ser Wenfryd chimed in. "They take vows of celibacy." But the look on his plain face belied his words. He would see these men punished.

Harry would hear none of it. "And no man has ever broken his vows, has he?" He looked about the room, moving between the knights, before he finally turned his gaze upon Allar Deem. "You may take the black, Allar Deem, but you'll do it absent cock." His eyes grew distant. He saw him atop her again, his hand curled tight around her neck. "And a hand from him as well." He looked to Brenden. "In my father's absence, _I_ am his justice. He is not here." His voice quietened to barely above a whisper. "And I honor my vows."

* * *

It was night before he returned to the keep. Stars winked down at him from the heavens, shining bright through wispy veils of thin, white clouds. It was cool and windy, but the low temperatures did nothing to assuage the fires burning in his chest. The three knights still rode with him, but he had since sent the Gold Cloaks ahead with their brothers-in-arms - Allar and Toret, bloodied and bedraggled - to deliver them to the gaolers in the dungeons beneath the keep.

After his justice was done, Amaerys had come for Aeryn. Maesters had come as well, with carts to carry Jerryd and Mumbly. A Septa and a group of Silent Sisters collected Fat Lip. The Septa whispered in hallowed tones and sang praises to the Seven, asking safe passage for his soul, as the Sisters wrapped his little body in red cloth.

Amaerys had declined his offer to make use of his maesters. "We Lysene have our own potions and poultices," she had said, walking Aeryn down the hill to Chataya's Brothel.

He had walked with them, sending men to collect his horse. Ser Lyle and Ser Wenfryd didn't leave his side, and after having their horses secured, Ser Brenden shadowed him as well, with five Gold Cloaks in formation behind him.

They had traveled in silence. Harry tried to express his apologies to both daughter and mother, tried to speak through clenched jaws and grinding teeth, but it took until they reached the brothel for him to find his tongue. "It was my fault," he had told them as they stood in the opened door to the brothel, thin smoke wafting from the room. "I made you a target for my brother's cruelty, and for that, you will never know the depth of my sorrow." _'Or my rage,'_ he had thought. "If there is anything I can do -"

But Amaerys had waved him off, and shared a look with her daughter, rubbing her shoulders through the doublet. "Continue to do as you have done," she had said, eyes still upon her daughter. "I will handle the rest. No man shall ever touch her so again, lest it be her desire."

Tears had slipped from Aeryn's eyes and rolled down her cheeks, leaving clean streaks in the dirt marring her face.

"Save your tears, dear child," her mother had said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Lys cries for you this night." She had kissed her daughter on the forehead, then looked back to Harry. "I bid you farewell, Prince. May the Lord of Light cast his fires to brighten your way."

He had ridden to see Jerryd and Mumbly after that. The manse stood at the corner of the street that led to the Dragon Gate, a tall, square building of stone and wood, with austere decorations and bronze braziers outside the doors. Mumbly lay still in his bed, as if dead, head covered in cloth wrappings, and Jerryd had been given sweetsleep. They didn't stir at all while Harry sat there watching them. The maester had explained that Mumbly's head had near been crushed from blunt force trauma, and they were doing what the could to help him. Jerryd had a few bruised ribs and a few broken as well, but they had set the bones and doused him in foul-smelling cremes and oils to heal his bruises and abrasions. "He'll be alright in a month or so," the maester had told him.

So he had returned to the keep in the dark of night, walking his horse behind him. The knights departed for the barracks when they passed into the keep, and Harry thanked them once more.

Stannis was waiting in a well furnished niche in the main hall of the keep, arms folded across his chest, mouth set in a hard line. "The King wants to see you," he said. "He's in his chambers."

Harry followed the walkway toward the Holdfast, seemingly unaware of Stannis at his side, for all the attention he gave him.

"You did good," Stannis said, and he tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "Your methods were extreme," he admitted, "- but you did good nonetheless." He grew quiet, appeared to be considering his words. "But when a man asks to take the black to escape punishment, you heed his call." He fiddled with a frayed piece of thread on the sleeve of his tunic. "You can't ignore some parts of the law to favor others."

"I did heed his call," said Harry. "Allar Deem will be sent north to join the Night's Watch."

They came upon the intersection that opened to the courtyard in the middle of the keep and the bridge to the Holdfast.

"And he will perform his duties admirably - he need never worry of being tempted to dishonor his vows."

"Damnit boy, you can't go around _dismembering_ people."

"Nor can men go around raping young girls. Nor any girls, for that matter." He paused in the shadow of an arched doorway, and peered out the open threshold to the guardsmen lowering the bridge across the spiked moat. "Perhaps I over stepped my boundaries, but I would do so again if need be," he explained to the stern lord. A thought came to him then. "Do you have friends, uncle?"

Stannis frowned down at him. "A few," he allowed. "The Onion Knight, Ser Davos. I count him as friend."

"If he was taken and tortured, what punishment would you visit upon the men responsible?" Stannis said nothing, looking away to stare into one of the black iron braziers along the floor. "I know you, uncle. I know you well. You would kill them, and you wouldn't do it quickly. Don't begrudge me this... a child lay dead, another raped, and one may yet never wake."

"And the fourth?"

"He will live. But there is nothing for him in King's Landing. Nothing for any of them." His face fell, eyes boring holes into the stone beneath his feet. "He wants to sail ships," he told his uncle. "Even has a little boat... "

Stannis was quiet for a long time. "May be that my friend has need of a servant," he said finally. Harry perked up, visibly brightening. "He was once much the same, Davos. Born right here in King's Landing, in Flea Bottom, even."

Harry could scarcely believe his words. "You would do that, uncle?" He would need to talk with Jerryd, but he couldn't imagine the boy declining.

"I'll send word to Cape Wraith," he said. "Now go on. The King is waiting." Stannis left at that, disappearing around a corner, his footfalls echoing in the empty corridors.

Mayhaps Stannis wasn't so bad after all.

He came across his mother standing in an alcove on his father's floor in Maegor's Holdfast, her hair falling in loose curls down her back. Further down the hall, his uncle Jaime and Ser Mandon Moore stood guarding the door to his father's chambers in their shining white plate.

"Harry dear, come." She held out her hand for him to grasp, and pulled him to her side. "Quite the adventure you've had today." They walked slowly towards the King's chambers, one of her arms curled about his shoulders, the other still holding his hand.

"I wouldn't call it an 'adventure', mother." Not even close. It was much more akin to a nightmare.

"Be that as it may, you showed your strength today, love. Ever the lion, strong and fierce."

"So too have I proven that I am my father's child. 'Ours is the Fury'," he quoted ruefully. He could still feel it boiling below the surface, that fury, a vast chasm of scalding heat waiting to overflow.

"Oh, but did you not roar!" she said, voice bursting with pride. She mentioned nothing of Joffrey's part in what had taken place. "And the whole realm heard it, hears it still. There will be songs written about you, love."

Harry did not share his mother's enthusiasm. "Perhaps." _'And I would just as well never hear them.'_ "Does their suffering not matter? Aeryn was raped, and Fat Lip is _dead_. Who would care to hear such a song?"

She stopped him at the threshold to his father's room, Jaime and Ser Mandon standing silent, framing the doorway. "_You_ are what matters," she said. "There are millions of lowborn; they suffer now and they will continue to suffer. There is but one of you, my love, and I would not see your heart hurt so for those beneath you."

Harry should have expected that. His mother looked down on ladies and lords - she would care nothing of smallfolk. But still...

"They needn't suffer for the crime of birth," he said, recalling his conversation with Tyrion. "It's just... it's not..."

"Fair?" his mother supplied. "If the world was fair, sweetling, then **I** would rule the Iron Throne. I would wield arms and wear plate, and it would be your father in skirts and gowns." She glanced over at Jaime, but the knight stared dutifully ahead.

Harry knew the world wasn't fair. But it didn't mean he had to _like_ it. Didn't mean he couldn't _change_ it.

* * *

His father's rooms were thrice the size of his own. An oaken wardrobe spanned one whole wall, prancing stags etched into the aged wood, little trinkets and bits of jewelry resting on the flat top. There was a hearth set in the opposite wall with crackling flames as tall as he was, and above it, atop the mantle, sat his father's old warhammer, a solid hunk of glittering steel inlaid with black gems. Tapestries hung on either side of the hearth, black silk woven with thread of gold depicting gruesome scenes of men at war. The bed was big enough to hold ten, covered in the pelts of black bears and shadowcats, oaken end tables set to either side of it, matching the wood of the wardrobe. His father's crown set atop one of the tables, gleaming in the firelight.

He spotted the king sitting in a corner atop a plush stool, the seat stuffed with down. He held a flask in his hand, and at his feet lay empty goblets and casks. He hummed to himself in between sips, one hand dancing through the air in rhythm.

Harry felt the old anger stir. He had forgotten past injustices in face of new, but he had not and he would not forgive his father for what had befallen Prince Rhaegar's family. He could not condone senseless murder.

"_Smile at the bodies." _That's what Elia had said. Had she been referring to his father, or Lord Tywin?

There was but one way to discover the truth... but he was afraid of the answer he would receive.

"Robert," Cersei announced into the silence.

Robert turned, just now noticing them, and smiled, his bearded face stretched wide.

_"Smile at the bodies." _

"Harry! I've been waiting for you." He stood and stumbled a bit, footsteps slow and irregular. He did not greet Cersei.

He was shirtless, his chest covered in hair, but he wore a black robe with drooping sleeves that hung down to his knees. Eventually, he reached the bed and leaned his weight into one of the posts. "I heard about the Gold Cloaks. And about Joffrey." He pulled from the flask gripped tight in his meaty fist. "You did good, lad, but - ahem - but, you broke the law. Can't go about cutting off cocks boy, not if they agree to take the black."

Stannis had said near the same, about men taking the black, and Harry was just as unmoved. He had broken no law - he had served justice. He said nothing, though; he had another thought on his mind, one that had blossomed as he looked upon his father.

"Might as well put the handless one out of his misery," Robert went on. "He won't be good for much."

But Harry didn't care to speak of Toret. "Will Joffrey be punished?" Had _he_ been called to the King's chambers? Allar Deem and Toret may have done the deed, but it was Joffrey who goaded them to it, Joffrey who gave them leave to act as beasts, _**Joffrey**, _who had cost a girl her innocence and a child his life.

Harry would take the blame for mutilating the men, but he wouldn't be silent, not while his brother stood free of accusation.

"Joffrey did nothing," his father said, and Harry felt the scalding heat rise into flames. "Nothing but stain his honor." He started muttering to himself, words too unintelligible to decipher.

"And what of Sandor's punishment?" Harry asked, teeth clenched. He should have ignored his father's summons till the morning, elsewise his magic would erupt again, so intrinsically linked to his emotions. "He _murdered_ a **child**."

His mother frowned down at him. "That child attacked your brother," she said. "Charged him with a spear. Sandor's actions were warranted."

_'Not you too, mother,'_ he thought, ashamed at her words.

"That they were," his father agreed.

"He needn't have _killed_ them," Harry stressed, trying to reign in his anger. It wasn't working. "He could just as easily have knocked him out. He was a _boy_. Younger even than Myrcella." Did they not understand? Could they not see just how _heinous_ his crime was?

"Sandor did what needed to be done," Robert said. "It was necessary."

Cersei said nothing.

Harry's stomach dropped, morphing into a bubbling, boiling, _heated_ pit. Mayhaps he had heard wrong. "Necessary?!" he repeated, voice strangled.

How could his father say such a thing? To even think the words was blasphemous in his eyes. His fury was born anew, bolstered by flames not yet gone, fueled by his hatred of Joffrey and his utter disdain for his father.

"It is _never_ necessary to kill children," he said vehemently.

The flames crackling above the hearth grew bolder, thickened, fueled by his magic seeping into the air.

"Not even for a kingdom." His voice was quiet and taut, like a bow poised to fire.

Robert was taken aback. "What was that boy?" His tone had changed. There was steel in his words.

Cersei gripped Harry tight, willing him to be silent.

But he could no longer hold the question that had been plaguing him since he spoke with Elia Martell. His father's words had but fanned the flames of his anger, made them brighter, _fiercer_, and he could contain them no longer. _'Smile at the bodies.' _It came back to that... a sin, unforgivable.

"Did you smile at them, father?"

"_What_? What are you talking about boy?"

"Elia, and Rhaenys, and Aegon," Harry spat. His mother squeezed his shoulder tighter, warning. "The children murdered to see you on the throne. Did you smile at their dead bodies?" _'Say no,'_ he thought. _'Tell me it's all a lie.'_

"Those weren't children boy. They were dragonspawn, and they deserved to die."

Harry was dismayed. Horrified, even. How could his father be so crass? So cruel? The room itself seemed to shake - loose coins lying about the floor, trinkets along the top of the wardrobe - even his father's crown, sitting at his bedside table. But the King didn't seem to notice.

Cersei's grip tightened further still as her eyes roved the room. He could almost _feel_ her fear, her worry, but it did nothing to quell his rage.

"They were _children_. Ignorant children. They didn't put men to the torch. They didn't kidnap Lyanna Stark."

His mother tensed beside him, and Robert looked stricken. Harry saw that, the regret and the shame, and pounced like the lion they all claimed him to be.

"Do you think she would've loved you after that, father?" Rage was building in his father's face, but Harry couldn't stop, _w__ouldn't_ stop, urged by his own anger and hate. "Do you think she could've loved a man like you?" Robert's face, flushed at first, turned almost puce. "A coward? It's no wonder mother is repulsed by the sight - "

Something exploded into the side of his head, and for several long breaths. the world went dark. It was like falling into a deep hole. There was no sound but the silence of his thoughts, but as he began to rise out of the hole, fingers grasping, clawing for purchase to see him free of the dark, a voice reached his ears.

"... disgrace, you still love that whore!" It was his mother's voice, yelling, then a thunderous clap, and more silence.

He climbed faster, up into the light, and saw the darkness fade. He was lying on the floor right where he had fallen.

"Does it make you feel strong, striking a woman?" He didn't hear the blow this time, but he heard the air rush from her mouth, heard her knees hit the floor as she lost her balance.

He struggled to stand. His limbs felt weak, his head was swimming, and there were tiny lights flickering in his eyes. The room wavered. "Stop," he said, but he might as well have whispered.

He felt hot. _Burning_ hot, as if he had _become_ flame, in essence.

"You are no king." It was his mother's voice again, weaker than before.

"Shut it, woman, or I'll show you just how much of a king I am." The goblets on the floor started shaking again, perhaps had never stopped, then the chairs, and the warhammer above the mantle. They shook and shook and shook, but still the drunken king did not notice.

Harry found his balance and felt himself returned to the Dragonpit, still bearing witness to the stuff of nightmares. Rage, wrath, fury, _anger_ - they were but words, incapable of describing the intensity of what he felt. "_Stop_," he said again, voice louder.

Cersei spat at Robert's feet. Her lip was split and already swelling.

Robert reared back his arm and something in Harry snapped.

"**Stop**!" He thrust out an arm and Robert flew into the wall as if shot from a catapult, his head smacking the stone with a sharp crack. He fell to the floor and did not move.

_'Oh no. **Oh no**!'_ All at once his anger seemed to evaporate. Dread had returned.

He ran over to his father and dropped to his knees beside him, limbs shaking. For all his rage, for all his hate, he hadn't meant to hurt his father; just stop him. He hadn't meant to _kill_ him. _'Gods, let him yet live!'_ Frantic, he put two fingers up to his neck, and laid one against his chest.

He felt the pulse of his heart beat, faint, but there, and the slow rise and fall of his massive chest. His father was _alive_.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm his frazzled nerves. That was the third time today he had used magic to hurt someone, the third time he had allowed his emotions to cloud his thoughts. And this was so much worse than the others. This was his _father._

Cersei struggled to her feet, regarding him with wide eyes. He was afraid to look at her, to see in her gaze the same wariness and fear he had seen reflected in Ser Wenfryd's face, or Ser Lyle or Ser Brenden. He hadn't cared much how they felt, though he was grateful for their loyalty. But he _loved_ his mother, loved her in a way that belied words, and he didn't think he could take it if she rejected him.

That was his greatest fear.

She scooped Robert's flask into her hands, spilled some on the floor, and wiped her foot through it, then she took a swig from the flask herself and tossed it back to the floor. "Go into the hall and tell Ser Mandon to retrieve Maester Pycelle. Tell him Robert slipped in spilled wine and took a blow to the head." She paused, considering. "Wait for me in your quarters."

"M-mother, I - "

"_Go_, Harry. I'll be along when I can." He hesitated, unsure of what to say or do. "_**Go**_," she said again, with more force to her voice.

Harry, a rapidly unraveling bundle of nerves and emotions, did as he was told.

* * *

He sat in his room for near two hours before his mother came. He hadn't bothered to light a torch, content to sit in the darkness with only his thoughts for company. Maegor had come during the first hour, but Harry scarcely acknowledged his presence, and the surly old ghost had left, grumbling about ungrateful bastards.

He was worried. What would become of him now? Of his father? He had attacked the King, and with magic, no less. Robert would know he hadn't slipped in wine.

And what would his mother say? Magic was little understood. Some considered it a thing of nightmares, a vile creation of beings most foul - the works of devils and spirits. Some had no thought of it at all. He remembered his lessons on the Great Bastards, and the Kings of old, the rumors and whispers that followed them, of pacts made in the dark of night, of blood sacrifices in dedication to creatures beyond the realm of men. But he also remembered lessons on Bran the Builder and the wall he had erected of ice and stone, woven with protective spells to defend the realm from what horrors lay beyond.

The Builder was remembered as a hero. Under which slant of light would he be viewed? By and large he was known to be kind, but just hours before he'd had two men mutilated. Deserving though they were, he still couldn't be sure of how people would interpret the events.

And that was how his mother found him, lying in his bed, staring into shadows.

"Harry," she said when she entered, voice tremulous. She held a candle in one hand, and the other held her skirts, bunched in her fist.

Harry kept his eyes to the shadows. He didn't think he could bear it if she looked upon him with fear.

"Harry," she said again, voice stronger. "_Look at me."_

He sighed, braced himself with a deep breath, and turned around to see her standing in the doorway, face brightened by flame.

She was _smiling_.

"Come here, child."

She held out her arms and he rushed from his bed and fell into her embrace. The scent of sweet berries tickled his nose.

"You've done me a great service today," she whispered, voice heavy with meaning. She pulled back and stared down at his face, and for the first time, she looked into his eyes. "What did you do to Robert? What happened?"

But Harry kept his silence, unwilling to part with his greatest secret. Mayhaps if he didn't vocalize it, she could delude herself into thinking it a trick of light, or a hallucination wrought by pain.

Cersei adopted a thoughtful expression. "Well, how about this. I will tell you my secret, and you will tell me yours." She led him back to his bed and they sat atop the furs. "That's fair, is it not?"

Harry nodded slowly, reluctance plain on his face.

"You are a miracle," she began. "A true miracle." She seemed to prepare herself to speak, and Harry began to realize the gravity of what she was about to say. He had never seen his mother hesitant speak. What was she about to tell him?

"When I grew heavy with you," her voice faltered, "- I took moon tea, and a great deal of it." She looked off into the darkness. "I didn't want another child." Her eyes grew wet with tears and they spilled down her face, more tears than he had ever seen his mother shed. "But you kept growing. The tea failed. So I took tansy... and it failed. I felt you inside of me, just here," and she grabbed his hand and held it to her stomach, "punching and kicking... so full of energy, so full of _life." _She looked down at him, gaze heavy. "I wanted no part of it. I hated you, love, before I had yet laid eyes upon you." She pressed her lips against his forehead, once, then twice, and cradled his face.

He was almost undone. A single tear slipped from his eye.

"But then you were born, with _his_ black hair and my green eyes... Jaime's green eyes," she said. "That well of hate dried up, and I grew to love you... my sweet, bold boy. So _strong._ So willful." She wiped away his tear with the pad of her thumb.

Harry had nothing to say to that. What could he say? His mother had tried to kill him, tried to end his life before it had begun. Had hated him. Did she do the same with Myrcella? Why had he been so reviled? And how had he lived?

But she loved him. That's what mattered, he thought. That's what he clung to, that knowledge, lest despair consume him. She _loved _him.

"That was my secret," she said. "Now what is yours?" She searched his face. "What happened, sweetling? What did you do to Robert?"

He was hesitant to answer, but she was insistent. He mulled over his words, wondering how he would explain, what he would say. But she had seen him do magic already; what else was there to say but the truth?

"It was magic," he said at last. He held out a hand and a strip of cloth laying across his mirror flew to his fingers. He gently wiped away her tears as she had wiped away his, and dabbed at the thin stream of blood still trickling from her swollen lip.

Her shock was apparent. Wariness too, as she racked her brain for an explanation. He had done it so casually, with such _ease..._ "And how did you.. how long have you been able..."

"I was born with this power." _'It was a gift,'_ he wanted to say. From something more than man. Something _great_. Something terrible.

She was silent for a very long time. Long enough that Harry felt apprehension take hold of him. "Is that all you can do, move things?" she asked finally.

He shook his head. "I can do more," he admitted. "_Much_ more. But I don't have the proper tools." He did, however, have ideas on how to go about acquiring them. He only needed time... time, and coin.

Cersei was silent, contemplating his words. "You've told no one of your... 'magic'?" she asked at last.

"No, but -" he stopped and cleared his throat, "earlier today..."

"Go on," she urged, voice gentle.

"I cursed Allar Deem, when I saw him. And Joffrey's dog too." Thinking of it only made him angry again._ 'Better to be angry than drowning in sorrow,'_ he thought. "I was just so _mad_. Ser Wenfryd named it punishment from the Father," he admitted. "I didn't disagree."

"It's fine, love." She tread her fingers through his hair. "You did well. But you must take care to reveal this power to _no one else_. No one, do you hear me?"

"I hear you." That's what he had been doing.

She stared meaningfully.

"Yes, _mother_."

She leaned down and kissed the crown of his head, and then each cheek. "There are many simple minded fools who may think your power the work of devils and demons." She stood, still holding his hand. "If need be, I will endeavor to convince them otherwise."

"How... how would you do that?" he asked, genuinely curious. He had ideas, but he'd scarcely entertained them. They were but vague, half thought out plots to tie himself to the Faith.

"Worry not, my love. Leave it to me. Leave _everything_ to me."

Harry hesitated. What would happen when his father awoke? He opened his mouth to ask, but his mother silenced him as she always did, pressing a finger to his lips.

"_Hush_, child. Mother knows best."

But there was something else he wanted to know as well; another question burned in the back of his throat. He spoke quickly, before he could be quieted. "Does he... does he do that often?"

She tilted her head, strands of golden hair falling into her eyes. "Do what, love?"

"Hit you," Harry said. "I'd never noticed -"

"It's not for you to notice. And he doesn't do it often." She tested her swollen lip with a prodding finger. "But often enough," she finished in a whisper. Then her demeanor changed, her face brightening, shining like the starlight cascading into his room. "Save your worries, sweetling, I've had my revenge." She ran her fingers through his hair again, and he leaned into her touch. "In more ways than one."

* * *

Two weeks passed quick as two days, for all the time Harry had to himself.

He had not slept a wink _that_ night, too worried for words to describe. Come morning he discovered his fears to be unfounded - Robert had awoken with little memory of even the feast, let alone all that transpired after. He could scarcely recall ever summoning Harry to his chambers at all.

But he wondered... what would his mother have done if Robert _had _remembered? He had asked her, days later as they supped in her chambers, and she had shushed him, told him, "Not to worry on what might have been." And he had left it at that... but he could still imagine.

He spent most every free waking hour with Myrcella. He led her through the castle, revealing a few of its ancient secrets, and _only_ a few, lest she gain the notion to sneak away and wander the streets as he did. She was loathe to see him go, and more than once she came to his rooms in tears, begging him to stay... but he could not. Not if he meant to be the man he felt he had to be. He would console her the only way he knew how, the way his mother consoled him, with sweet words and caresses. More oft than not she slept in his chambers, and she had told him that she would have her things moved to his rooms when he left, so she could "imagine he was always close."

Harry had to laugh at that. She spoke as if he would never again return to King's Landing, as if the Westerlands were some foreign land far across the Sunset Sea. From what he had been able to discern, Casterly Rock was scarcely a month and a half's ride from King's Landing, and even that at a somewhat leisurely pace.

He was still worried for her safety, and had said so to his mother. Realizing the gravity of his concern, she had sworn an oath to see her protected, even from Joffrey, though she still maintained that her 'golden lion' would do nothing to his sister.

He'd had no words for Joffrey, and Sandor was much too afraid to stand in the same room as him, let alone speak. Not that Harry had any words for the _dog_ either.

Tyrion found him one day after his lessons, laying in a field of weeds under the midday sun in one of the forgotten courtyards bordering the outer bailey. The 'incident', as he had taken to calling it, had occurred three days before. His uncle had spent most of them at Chataya's brothel, so drunk he could scarcely speak his own name. He had meant to apologize, and from his halted speech, Harry discerned he truly _was_ sorry, but he had waved away his uncle's apology. "You were drunk," he had told Tyrion, "and half-witted because of it."

"And thus I had twice the wits any other man could claim," his uncle had said in return. "Not exactly one of my shining moments, was it? Trying to humiliate a boy of nine... and my favorite nephew, no less."

"I don't regret hearing your words, uncle," Harry had said. "You shouldn't regret saying them."

"And yet regret them I do," Tyrion had replied, almost distraught. "I lectured you much in the same way my father lectured me, berated you for humiliating your brother, who just happened to be wholly deserving of said humiliation, and then..."

"Let it lie, uncle." He could almost laugh. Who was cutting off who now? "The matter is in the past... let it stay there. If you truly mean to apologize then ride with me to Casterly Rock." And Tyrion had agreed.

Jaime too, had 'reconciled' with his nephew and saw to his training for the entirety of the two weeks, and on the eve of his departure, presented him a dazzling shortsword with a ridged, silver hilt, and a ruby almost as big as Harry's fist set in the pommel. He had been gifted a longsword by Ser Barristan, a white blade with two fullers and a plain birchwood grip wrapped in gray leather, "as sharp as any other you'll find," and Ser Aron granted him a horse, a little tan mare bred in Dorne.

"Sand Steed's have more stamina than larger horses," he had explained, "but are too small to bear a man in plate."

His father gave him a plain dagger with a wicked black blade. "Valyrian steel," he had said as Harry palmed it.

Guilt coursed through him. He had just near killed his father, and yet here he was, gifting him with him a Valyrian steel dagger.

"I near forgot I had it," he had told Harry. "May be that there are more still hidden in my armory - if the Gods be good, you can claim them all. It'd be a nice touch to go with those bows."

He had visited Jerryd, Mumbly, and Aeryn as well. He had first asked Jerryd if he would like to become his squire, but the boy had declined.

"I don't know nothing about squiring, Harry." But then Harry had mentioned Stannis's offer, and told him what he knew of Davos Seaworth. "Does he sail ships?" Jerryd had asked.

Harry told him what he had been able to gather about the Seige of Storm's End, and Ser Davos smuggling provisions into the castle past the Redwyne Fleet, and Jerryd was sold.

Mumbly had been visited by a plump, bearded man with offer of a job, but Harry never saw the man when he came to visit, and left it up to Mumbly and his parents to decide his future. He'd had little desire to serve as either squire, or page, or servant, and did little else but cry when Harry visited, mourning the loss of his brother.

Aeryn was a different matter entirely. He could tell she was changed by what had happened to her, but she didn't show it. In fact, she seemed _more_ fierce, but sometimes, under the cowl of night, a great sadness would settle across her face. Harry was in utterly new territory. How did you console a girl who had been raped? In the end, he decided to treat her as if nothing had happened. _'Maybe that will help her move on,'_ he had thought.

She had given him no other option than to find a way to accommodate her in Casterly Rock, had said that he "owed her," and she remained unmoved even after he told her about Tysha.

"No man would dare rape me again," she had said. "You've seen to that."

That was the only time she had mentioned the tragedy that befell her, and Harry never brought it up.

"There's nothing for me here," she had said, and for a second, he had seen a glimpse of that crushing sadness. "So I will come with you."

In the end, he'd had Tyrion and Jaime write their aunt, Lady Genna, to see if mayhaps Aeryn could serve as a handmaiden. Her reply had been ambivalent.

"I will take her into my home," she had written, "But only if Harry proves himself worthy." He had been worried - the message was quite ominous, but Tyrion explained that Genna would _love_ him.

"You've my smarts coupled with good looks," Tyrion had said. "And at the tender age of nine, you had two men mutilated for raping a young girl. No... methinks you have proven yourself worthy already."

Word of his justice had spread through the city like a plague, and then out to the Crownlands beyond. When people regarded him now, it was through a veil of wariness, but others praised him just the same as they had, some even fiercer. They had loved him before - now, that love was tempered with caution, or strengthened by zeal. He supposed it was warranted, his new regard - Toret had become a beggar, and most every man who walked River Row saw him sitting on the side of the street, asking after spare coin and foodstuffs. Allar Deem had died on the sixth night of his imprisonment; he'd passed away in his cell beneath the keep after a strong sickness in his bowels. The gaoler had said that he spent his last nights howling in pain, but he couldn't spare milk of the poppy to quiet him.

Harry was almost glad they hadn't. Allar Deem deserved whatever evils followed him. Death, he thought, was too merciful. _'There are things worse than death.'_

The fated morning finally arrived, the morning he would depart for Casterly Rock, and with it, on bated winds, came _change_. Harry brimmed with excitement, anxious to see the lands that lie between King's Landing and Lannisport, and Casterly Rock itself, and all the wonders the Westerlands had to offer.

Harry - Flatfoot beside him, reins in hand - stood before his family, each of them in trimmings fit for a feast - his father in a black and blue quilted doublet, and his mother in a thin, short cut cotton gown colored lavender, a golden choker studded with diamonds about her neck. Myrcella and Joffrey both dressed to match mother and father, respectively, though Joffrey had traded blue for red. Lord Jon bore his house colors; a white tunic beneath sky blue robes flecked with swooping falcons. Renly wore a garish gold and green _thing_, a combination of colored leather, robes, and breeches speckled with flowers, and beside him was Stannis, in mail, his own sigil woven into his surcoat. The Kingsguard stood in a line behind the King, save Ser Barristan, each in their gleaming white armor and capes, more eye-catching than most any garb a noble could wear. A massive array of Gold Cloaks stood behind them, spears erect, along with most every lord and lady who remained at court, the gold and silver and crimson weave of their brocade jackets twinkling in the sun light. The Sept of Baelor atop Visenya's Hill stood tall in the distance, the seven drum towers like fingers reaching into the sky, grasping for the sun.

A crowd had gathered in the square in front of the Lion Gate on the west side of the city. A veritable horde of well-wishers, from the drudges of Flea Bottom to the wealthiest of merchants were assembled in whatever finery they possessed, and if they had none, the finest drab they could find. 'His' knights stood at his back, Ser Lyle and Ser Wenfryd, in their house colors atop gleaming mail, and Ser Brenden with ten more men who had traded in their gold cloaks for black, each to become members of his permanent guard, Frederick among them. Tyrion stood with him, and Maester Wulfric as well, plus Ser Barristan and Thoros, who was making the trip because, as he'd explained to Harry, he saw it "written in flames." Ser Kevan and his retinue stood to his other side, most every man mounted and in mail, standards waving gently in the cool breeze, and beside them rested dozens of carts laden with supplies.

Aeryn was sequestered away in one of the carts, a dragonbone bow hidden in her packs, face shadowed beneath the furred hood of one of his cloaks, Alik and Mikael, Harry's boot boy, with her. He didn't think he had enough boots to warrant his own boot boy, and he had said as much to Lord Jon, but the grizzled old lord added Mikael to his retinue anyway. He had given Aeryn his castle-forged dagger as well, mostly to ease his own worries rather than hers.

He wondered how she was dealing with what had transpired. He could scarcely think of it, lest his anger resurface... but how did she feel, truly? It was a conversation they needed to have, but one that he prayed never came about.

The incident was still much too recent, the wounds too raw. May be that she would be ready to speak of it in years, or months, but Harry wouldn't press.

His family had already said their goodbyes in the castle, save for Joffrey, whom Harry did not acknowledge, but Myrcella was not yet ready for her beloved brother to depart. She wrapped him in a hug and for the longest time refused to let him go, no matter what Harry murmured into her ears. Renly managed to pry her off, and she cried into his shoulder as other Lords came forward to wish Harry well.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Harry's party mounted their steeds, most of the knights riding palfreys, and his 'Black Cloaks' atop rounseys all. They rode through the massive Lion Gate to a chorus of cheers of chants and the clamor of horns blowing atop the wall.

It was an apt name, 'Lion Gate' - there were carvings of lions all around the gate, lining the top and falling down the sides, some proud and staring, some coiled, ready to pounce, and others snarling, maws open wide. And on the other side, facing outward from King's Landing, the gate became a lion's mouth, with slitted eyes and a nose carved above it, a thick mane framing the stone face.

As he rode through the gate, the crowd roaring at his back, he pondered Ser Barristan's words from before the feast.

_"Be that for now - the heir to Casterly Rock. Worry not of shadows waiting to pounce in distant times. Be yourself, and you will be ready for whatever might arise."_

And be himself he would.

The last of his party cleared the gate, and the portcullis, crisscrossing lengths of banded steel, closed with a loud, metallic _clang_. The Gold Road lay open before him, little more than packed dirt paved by centuries of travel, but in that moment, it couldn't have been more beautiful. It was just a road, and barely even that, but at the end of it lay the first of many paths he would have to walk, the first of many doors he would have to open.

_'Be yourself,'_ he thought._ 'The heir to Casterly Rock.'_

And Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.


	6. Into the Lion's Den

**AN: **I really and truly appreciate the reviews. Thanks again to Jarik for his help and Celestin for his input, and the hounds at DLP for their words of encouragement and help with editing. I wanted to be in Casterly Rock by the end of this chapter, but you all would've had to wait a good while longer, so I decided to post this 'transitional' chapter instead. Next chapter we'll delve into Casterly Rock in all its glory.

Impressed Reader - Lol, I wasn't angry. You put too much stock in Tyrion's words, taking them as strict fact - he was just trying to make Harry feel bad, amongst other things.

Anonymous - Heirs born into a different house drop their birth surname when they come into their inheritance, adopting the name of the inherited house as their own.

**Disclaimer: **I own neither Harry Potter nor A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones. This chapter features a quote taken from chapter 66 of A Storm of Swords.

* * *

The freedom of the open road was a soothing balm after the tumultuous events of Harry's last few weeks in King's Landing. He enjoyed the immense quiet of the countryside, the unique stillness broken only by the thundering hooves of horses at his back and the occasional song belted in off notes by the knights and mounted men. The air was fresher too, _cleaner, _thick with the scents of wildlife. He still had his lessons with both Maester Wulfric and Ser Barristan, the former most oft as they rode, the latter when they broke camp.

On the fourth night the men set camp in the flat marshlands where the Blackwater Rush forked in two. Half of them didn't bother to erect tents, opting instead to sleep on the soft earth with only the clouds as cover. They sang vulgar tunes over the faint sound of the rushing waters, gambled over dice and cards, and a few of his guardsmen made wagers over a complex foreign board game called _Cyvasse;_ it reminded him of something from his dreams. The smell of salted fish and wet earth was heavy in the air; heavy enough that Harry could nearly taste the freshwater trout boiling in a stew.

In the waning daylight, Harry, Aeryn, and two of his guardsmen rode south down the Blackwater Rush along a thin, muddy trail framed with reeds. Harry had set out with no true purpose - the ride had been Aeryn's idea. "Practice," she had said, to better her riding skills.

As he rode, Aeryn's quicker, smaller mount half-a-length ahead, a splash of dark color in the midst of drab greens and browns caught his eye. He gently tugged the reins and Flatfoot slowed to a stop.

The color had caught Aeryn's eye as well, for she slowed her horse - the Sand Steed, as of yet unnamed - and dismounted to wade through the reeds closer to the riverside, Harry following at her back. There, they found a cluster of black water lilies pushed to the bank of the river, blocked by a rotting log. Ser Brenden and Frederick stayed further behind but remained in sight, leading their horses to graze in the fields.

"Let's make a crown for Fat Lip," Aeryn said. She knelt in the mud and gathered the lilies in front her. In the setting sun the silver and gold strands of her hair glittered as if flecked with diamonds.

She was still uncomfortably silent around others and mostly kept herself hidden in the baggage train while they traveled the Gold Road, but she seemed to come alive in the night hours away from prying eyes, with only Harry and sometimes his servants for company. She showed but the barest spark of the fierce girl she had been before - her smiles were too forced, her laughs too short - but that spark was enough to take heart; so long as her fire had not died, it could be rekindled.

Harry lowered himself alongside her, but kept his feet.

"Stupid boy," she said. "He wanted to be a pirate king." Her laugh was bitter. "'King of the Stepstones.' He didn't even know where they were." She wove the lilies together with blades of grass as Harry watched, her fingers deft even as her hands trembled.

"Aeryn?" he ventured. He reached out and touched his hand to hers, and the trembling stilled.

"There's a flower like this in Lys," she said. "A red flower. My mother told me about them. They grow in the marshes of the southern island, in the shadow of a mountain. 'Mix red and black with powdered bone, and watch the Widow's Blood flow free.'"

"Widow's blood?"

"A poison." She looked up at him and he saw anger in her eyes, and beneath that, behind the deep, dark purple, a flash of swarthy skin and black hair. _Allar Deem_.

He hadn't tried to delve into her thoughts just then. It had been hard, at first, to open the door to the mind, but he had fallen into Aeryn's head with but the briefest eye contact.

The door had grown into a chasm.

"My mother killed that _fucking cunt_ with it - slipped it into his afternoon meal." She looked down. "It was a slow, painful death, and much too merciful." Her features were already sharp, but with her eyes narrowed, she seemed as if a sword, angled to cut. "He died of his body's own poisons, and I would see him die a thousand times more." And her voice, steel just pulled from the forge.

"As would I."

But there were things worse than death, weren't there? He would just as well see Allar Deem live a hundred miserable years, see him a victim of his own cruelties, see him beg for the sweet release of death and never yet be granted its kiss. _'Death was indeed far too merciful for Allar Deem,'_ he thought. _'A life, twisted and wretched, would've been just.'_

The quiet stretched too long. Aeryn just knelt there, silent and still, so Harry spoke again.

"All it takes is a red flower, a black flower, and powdered bone to make a poison?"

"No, there's more to it than that." She rose to her feet, her tight leather breeches stained at the knee, and set the crown on the log. "They have to be aged, the flowers, and the bone burned before being powdered. And then there are the prayers."

"Prayers?" What sort of prayers birthed poison? Perhaps these 'prayers' were some sort of spells?

"To the Red God," she said, staring at his face. He caught her eye and saw a flaming heart, and a stout temple of red sandstone on a tapestry. Tears gathered in her eyes, like twinkling stars in the twilight, and her voice shook. "I prayed to the Lord of Light when... when - " .

He knew when. "You don't have to say it."

She shook her head. "I do. I can't move past it if I don't. And I _need_ to say it." She took a deep breath. "When I was... when I was _raped_... I prayed to the Red God. For the first time in my life I prayed... and do you know what happened?"

"No." But he could imagine.

"**You** came. You came, and you chased away the terrors." She looked at him again, and there was a weight to her gaze that made him uncomfortable.

Just what was she implying?

* * *

Aeryn had yet to question him about what had happened to Allar Deem and Sandor, but he could tell she wanted to, and how could she not? She had seen the pain in Allar's face when he rolled off her, had heard the sheer agony in his screams. She was no follower of the Seven; she didn't believe the Father had anything to do with what had happened. He was glad for her reticence, but he wondered how long it would last.

Late at night under the cover of darkness when his lessons with Ser Barristan were done, he would show Aeryn how to wield a dagger in the confines of his tent, or watch her shoot targets set up in shrubbery on the outskirts of camp with naught but the pale glow of the moon to light her way. They would ride his horses through fields in wide circles around camp, wind whipping through their hair, starlight trickling down from the heavens. She had gotten better at riding - she certainly wouldn't win any races, but she could manage the rhythm of a trot or a canter just fine.

His guardsmen were always there, shadowing him, watching him, but they gave him space - gave _her_ space. They had been there, that day at the Dragonpit - it was what bound them.

But for all her skill with a bow, hitting targets dead center in the dark of night, Aeryn was terrible with a dagger.

"It's not a kitchen knife, Aeryn, you're holding it too tight," Harry told her one night. "Loosen your grip... yes, like that."

It was the tenth day of their journey, and the third night of such lessons. They had set camp in the foothills of the great mountain range that spread throughout the West, just north of the Gold Road. The stone giants rose in the distance like arching arrowheads, their jagged peaks piercing the clouds. Tents sprouted up like weeds in the tall grass of the rolling foothills, most all of them crimson, though there was the occasional piecemeal tent, multicolored patches of mismatched fabric woven together by the camp women. The men dug fire pits and a separate trench some ways away from camp, to serve as a latrine.

Harry's tent was appropriately large, with a raised bed - a thick pile of fur and quilts stuffed with down - in one corner, and a table carved of black oak in the center of the room with books strewn across its surface, dog-eared tomes with worn spines. A plain, gold candelabra sat in the middle of the table.

Aeryn gripped the hilt as Harry showed her, careful to mind the space between her fingers. "Who ever knew there was a proper way to hold a dagger," she said as she stabbed at an invisible foe.

"You certainly didn't," he returned.

She gave him the ghost of a smile. "I wish I had known then."

A long and awkward silence settled over the tent. Harry felt completely inept and wholly out of his depth. He wished he could make her forget what had happened, wished _he_ could forget what had happened._ 'But I could make her forget, couldn't I? If only I had a wand...'_

He opened his mouth to speak but could form no words, his voice claimed by grief. And what could he possibly say?

But he needn't say anything at all, for Aeryn spoke again.

"But I'm learning now, ain't I? Besides - " and she had tried to smile, but it was strained, "I've got the mighty 'Black Prince' to look out for me."

He latched on to that, bolstered by her mocking tone, and spoke through his sadness. "Praise the Gods for that," he said. "I've seen babes wield a blade better."

"Shut it you." She waved the dagger at him, one eye narrowed. "I've got a knife, and I ain't afraid to use it."

There was the barest hint of a smile in her voice, a real smile, and he was all the more gladdened for it. Too often her smiles seemed less expressions of happiness and more expressions of pain.

"So you do," Harry replied. "But you've just learned how to grip it - you're more like to hurt yourself than me."

She pounced on him at that, her silver and gold hair wild, and for a few breathless moments as they wrestled around the floor of his tent they were able to forget the horrors of their past - Fat Lip's corpse lying in the road, Allar Deem and his cruel touch, or the horrible screams as Harry exacted his justice. They were just two children having fun, like how the _used_ to, before everything changed.

But the moments were few and far in-between.

He had nightmares sometimes, of that day, and when all was quiet, and the camp settled down for the night, she would come into his tent with nary a word and sleep atop the furs, herself plagued with nightmares no doubt more severe than his own. He would wake to her shivering beside him, even though it was warm out, or screaming into his chest, voice wet with fear, and he would soothe her as he soothed Myrcella, with soft words and softer touches until she calmed.

On those nights the hate burned strong, and the candle he had set on the table would burst to life, a little fire dancing atop the wick that pulsed with the beat of his heart. It grew as his hatred grew, fed by roiling waves of malignant magic.

Sometimes he found himself thinking as Aeryn did, wishing Allar had not died so he could kill the man himself, but mostly he just felt guilt, a sickening sort that settled in the pit of his stomach, hot and heavy. He would close himself off then and spend his time brooding over what could've been, had he not humiliated Joffrey, had he not gone out to Tobho Mott's that day, had he never befriended the Nameless in the first place. He had been told, more than once and by multiple people, that what had transpired was no fault of his, but he couldn't agree. He wasn't _wholly_ responsible for what happened, but he was partly responsible. No amount of words would change that truth.

One such night he voiced his thoughts aloud into the darkness of his tent as he lay beneath his furs. They had reached the mountains and were but days away from the Deep Den. They had passed a few small towns along the way, sparse settlements of wheat farmers and sheep herders, but they had no shelter to offer - just barley and wheat.

He had thought himself alone in his tent and neither hidden the emotion in his voice - a maelstrom of anger and guilt and hatred - nor tempered his words.

Aeryn, with her big, slanted eyes and sharp, exotic features snapped him out of his burgeoning depression with words that stung like a whip. He hadn't seen her there, sitting at the table.

"We're both fucked in the head now, I think, but _I'm_ the one who's damaged goods. What do you have you to brood about? I don't regret knowing you - don't regret knowing me."

And that resigned acceptance of her fate was what pained him the most. It was as if she had expected such misfortune to befall her. Was that the reality of the lowborn? He had wondered how many Rhaenys's there were in the Seven Kingdoms, but how many Aeryn's were there? Women - _girls, _raped and cast aside with nary a thought, broken and beaten with no future for them but more of the same. There was a reason his mother and uncle had so readily labeled her a whore - for a pretty girl of low standing, what else was there?

"You're not _damaged goods," _he told her. His voice was stronger than he intended. "And I don't regret knowing you," he continued, softer. "But I _do_ regret what happened to you." Regretted it every day.

"I suppose I could tell you it wasn't your fault, but you wouldn't listen, would you?" Her voice was faint, barely more than a whisper.

"No. I wouldn't."

"... You're very strange, Harry. I didn't think people like you existed."

Now what did she mean by that? "People like me?"

But she shook her head - he could just make out her locks whipping about - and said no more.

Some nights Tyrion joined them, sipping on a pale, orange liquor. He shared stories of his youth, specifically about Lady Genna, and what Aeryn could expect in her service. Tyrion would climb into a seat at the table and thumb through the books, slowly drinking himself into oblivion. The closer they drew to Casterly Rock, the more he seemed to drink.

Aeryn wasn't as wary in his presence as she was others - his uncle was so small, she probably thought she could overpower him if need be.

"You'll like her - both of you will like her, I think. A strong Lannister woman, my aunt." There was a sort of tired resignation about him. It made him seem older than his four and twenty years.

"Like my mother?" asked Harry.

His uncle frowned. "Oh Gods no... _nothing_ like your mother. Lady Genna has a heart."

He couldn't fault Tyrion's opinion of his mother, but it had angered him to hear her spoken of in such a manner. He well knew of the animosity between them, had witnessed not long ago the depths of his mother's hatred for her brother, so he let the matter lie. It was through no fault of Tyrion's that his mother hated him, but he had to wonder as to _why_. Jaime didn't hate him, nor did Ser Kevan, so why the enmity between the two? Did she blame Tyrion for her mother's death, as Tyrion said Lord Tywin blamed him?

* * *

During the journey, Harry had gotten more familiar with his guards, as well as Ser Kevan and his men. He was still somewhat unfamiliar with the squires, save a select few, and of those, he knew little more than their names. He had never had so much time to himself, to explore and wander; he would lament its loss, when they finally reached Casterly Rock.

He, in a plain tunic and breeches, Ser Barristan, always in white, and his men, in their shining black ringmail, would ride out ahead of the main party acting as scouts, following the thin trails that broke off from the main road. It was an escape, of sorts, from horrors best left in the past.

They rode through meadows of wildflowers, sunlight glinting on the fluttering wings of dragonflies, and sweeping fields of wheat and barley, where they saw the occasional farmhand working the earth, toiling in the midday heat. They followed a range of grassy hills north of the Gold Road along the Blackwater Rush, and far in the distance Harry saw the walls of Stoney Sept atop a great mound.

While the men fished for trout and exchanged stories of their past, Harry shared a tale he had heard from his father, about the Battle of the Bells during the Rebellion, and the Riverlands knight Ser Harry Wode he had been named for.

"Ser Harry showed my father to the Peach. When the Mad King's Hand, Jon Connington, came looking for him, Ser Harry kept his silence, and he died for it. While Connington's men scoured the city my father lay with whores, recovering from wounds he'd received during the Battle of Ashford. Before Connington could find him, the combined forces of the North and the Riverlands reached Stoney Sept. There were thousands of men, hungry for battle. They fought in the streets, on rooftops, and even in the buildings. The forces were well matched, but then my father appeared with his men and the scales tilted to his favor, and the Battle of the Bells was won."

"You know much of battles, my prince," said Rowan Longwaters. He was unfolding a net. "More so than most young lads."

Rowan was a cousin of the Red Keep's Chief Undergaoler. He was of average height with a square, freckled face, brown hair almost red, and the ghost of a beard across jaw and chin.

"I've been to Stoney Sept," Ser Wenfryd said. "And the Peach as well. May be that you have a half-brother or sister there; I recall a young girl with the looks of the King about her. Much like that young armorer, eh?"

Rowan had made a fire, and Ser Wenfryd speared fish on a few arrows and held them over the flames.

There was Terryck Waters, long and rangy with brown hair cut short, and Gavin Greyhand, a small, wiry man with gray hair and a thick beard, named so for the intricate tattoo etched into the back of his sword hand. Both had been sellswords in the past - Gavin had even fought in the war of the Ninepenny Kings.

"I didn't do much fightin'." He was standing on the bank of the river, spear in hand, waiting for a fish to draw near. "I was barely older than you are now, and not half as skilled." That made Gavin even older than Harry had realized, almost of an age with Ser Barristan.

Terryck's story was considerably darker.

"I served with the Long Lances. Me and my three brothers. 'The Four Bastards,' they called us.". He took three deep pulls from his flask of ale, and even offered some to Harry. "For four years I fought, and each year, I lost a brother 'til there weren't none left."

Hamand 'Ham' Hogg, his dirty blonde hair cut into a neat square atop his head, was the loudest of his guards, a barrel-chested man with a stomach big and round as if pregnant. Ham had spent his youth at Sow's Horn, and squired for his uncle, Ser Roger - a bannerman of House Hayford - along with his cousins, but there had been too little coin to spare for Hamand _and_ his cousins, so he'd gone south to King's Landing to join the City Watch.

"There's decent coin to be had, guardin' the city." He spoke around a mouthful of salted fish, hot off the fire. "So long as you stayed well clear of Janos Slynt - he'd make you a captain for half your wages, but what good is bein' a captain if you don't have coin?"

Quinn Celtigar was a solemn man with dark blue eyes, platinum blond hair, and a wide, square jaw. He'd been exiled in his youth by his great uncle, the sour old Lord Ardrian, for 'taking liberties' with the Lord's property.

"I was fool enough to train myself with his Valyrian steel axe when his sons had shown no such interest. He had me exiled, and I went east. Volantis, Pentos, Qohor, Braavos... I even went so far east a Qarth, and sailed the Jade Sea. The free cities are quite beautiful. There's an elegance to them that King's Landing lacks." A shadow fell over his eyes. "But I would rather not think of those times. I did things I'd rather forget, my prince. I eventually returned to Westeros and found gainful employment in the city."

Cassius Langward, a crass, foul-mouthed man with lank, dark brown hair hanging to his ears and a nose that must've been broken a dozen times, told Harry differently.

"It was more to do with him being caught buggering his _male _cousin than fooling about with that axe."

Cassius, Harry liked the least - he was _too_ crass, too lecherous; kind of like his uncle Tyrion, though he lacked his uncle's charisma. That's not to say he didn't like him at all - he could admire his sense of responsibility, at least, for sending coin to take care of his bastards.

"I've a dozen, at least," he'd said. "It was either spend years being a servant to a knight, or join the City Watch and make some coin. Squiring doesn't pay for bastards."

Gerard Gladstone was a rather dimwitted man, built like an ox, who enjoyed arm wrestling Ser Lyle, though he rarely won. He was from the Vale - half-mountain clan, he boasted, and with his thick beard and hair, Harry could easily imagine him a descendant of mountain men.

Alard of the Kingswood, a rather wild looking fellow with whiskers that curled up to his nose, was a very simple man, and he was damned good with a mace. He was also the best hunter among them, and proved it most every night he returned to camp with a deer slung over his shoulder, or half-a-dozen rabbits hanging from his belt. He wasn't so good at fishing, though.

They were a strange and boisterous lot, his guards, save for the young Frederick - a lesser cousin of House Farring, he had learned - who kept mostly to himself, and Falk, a bald man of sharp face and aquiline nose, who rarely spoke more than a few words, content to observe the world rather than remark upon it. He'd had an uncle on the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan had told him, a 'Gwayne Gaunt', who had been murdered during the Defiance of Duskendale.

"Aerys was never the same after his captivity," Ser Barristan said one night as they sat around a fire, smoke billowing in the air.

He held a whetstone in one hand and a sword in the other. They were alone, save for Ser Brenden stoking the flames.

"That, I think, was when madness began to claim him," he said, stroking the blade with the stone.

"Ser Barristan, may I ask you something?"

Weeks ago he'd had a mind to ask him about serving Aerys, but as they drew nearer Casterly Rock, he found his thoughts dominated by the cruelties of Lord Tywin. He would not allow him to do to Aeryn as he had done to Tysha.

"You may," the old knight said. "And if it be in my power to answer, I shall."

But how to ask? _'Best just say it. No use dancing around the point.'_ "Have you ever killed a child?"

Ser Barristan gave him a queer look. "No. Never in my years of service... but that doesn't mean children haven't died because of my actions."

"What do you mean?" he asked, though he had something of an idea.

"I've waged war, Harry, seen its effects first hand. Even those not on the battlefields feel the sting of it. Men leave behind wives and children who depend on them. They leave behind farmlands with no one to work them. People starve." He turned his blade this way and that, the steel glinting in the firelight. "I did save a babe once, for all the good it did."

Harry couldn't recall hearing this story. "What became of the babe?" He was genuinely curious.

"You know him. Ser Dontos Hollard, the drunken fool. He is the last of his house; the rest were put to the sword."

_'Of course,'_ he thought with dawning realization. How had he forgotten the extermination of House Darklyn and House Hollard? He hadn't realized that Dontos was a scion of the House. "Put to the sword by Lord Tywin," he said.

"Yes." Ser Barristan nodded. "By Lord Tywin."

"He seems to put many to the sword. Men, women... babes."

Ser Barristan sheathed his sword and dropped his whetstone into his pack. "Lord Tywin, as I've told you, is a harsh man. Cruel, and ruthless, but you shouldn't judge him by his actions during war. I've seen knights behave as common criminals in times of war, raping and pillaging to their hearts desire. War makes monsters of us all, my prince. Even I have killed when mayhaps I could've granted mercy."

Harry sat quietly as he digested Ser Barristan's words. "I heard my father once say that had Lord Tywin still been Aerys's hand during the Battle of the Bells, he wouldn't have survived to become king."

"No, I don't think he would have. Lord Tywin would've put Stoney Sept to the torch."

Harry was near horrified. Burn a town full of women and children to kill one man? "And killed all the people inside?" he asked, incredulous.

"And ended the Rebellion," Ser Barristan amended. "What is the worth of a hundred lives versus a hundred thousand?"

He couldn't rightly answer that. "... What would you have done?" he asked instead.

"Much as Jon Connington did, I suppose."

"But... you just said - "

"I know, lad, but ofttimes men haven't the steel to make that call. I know I haven't, and I thank the Gods I've never had to make such a decision."

Harry sat there for a long while, listening to the crackling fire, watching the flames pitch this way and that. What would he have done at the Battle of the Bells? Burn an entire town - women and children all - to save a kingdom? To end a war? But what was a kingdom worth? Who could truly measure the value of one life against ten lives, or a hundred, or a thousand?_ 'A kingdom is only worth as much as the people within it,'_ he thought. But if he was ever called to kill a child to save a thousand more, could he do it?

He didn't know, and he hoped he was never faced with such a quandary.

As the night began to wind down, and the camp grew still, he begged his leave, thanking Ser Barristan for his counsel. He wandered between the tents, his mind a maze of thoughts - he didn't notice when Ser Brenden came to shadow him, but he was grateful for his devotion, in spite of the knight's wariness. Ser Brenden hadn't forgotten that day, how Allar began screaming only when Harry looked upon him, how Sandor fell when Harry turned his enraged gaze on him as well.

But still he served, and Harry was grateful for that.

* * *

The next day as they - Harry, Terryck, Ser Brenden and Gerard - rode into camp from a morning spent ranging, Rowan found them and informed Harry of Ser Andar and Ser Derwyck riding with the baggage train, hoping to be sworn to his service. The others were breaking camp, packing away their supplies.

"I imagine many a hedge knight will attempt to attach themselves to your retinue," Rowan said as Harry dismounted. "I don't know Lord Tywin, but I've heard enough from Ser Kevan's men about him. They say he doesn't much abide hedge knights. Might be they think aligning themselves with you a safer bet. More likely too. It's no small honor, being sworn to a prince's banner."

Harry hadn't realized that - had never much thought of it. "But I haven't a banner yet, Rowan. Just black cloaks."

"I'm confident you'll have one soon enough, my prince."

In the time since, Harry had yet to have words with either Andar or Derwyck, but he had assigned Falk to judge their character and make use of his watchful gaze. He had neither the need nor the desire for more men like Cassius.

He took his sups with Ser Kevan and his two nephews, Cleos and Lyonel Frey - a pair of the dullest men Harry had yet to meet - Ser Barristan, Ser Lyle, Ser Benningtyn, Ser Harwick, Tyrion, and occasionally Thoros, though the red priest much preferred the drinks and songs of the guardsmen and squires.

Ser Kevan's tent was more a pavilion, wide and tall with a golden, sloping roof. There was space enough for a redwood table to seat ten men, a bronze brazier in the middle of it casting light to every corner of the tent. A raised bed of fur and down sat off to one side, a rack set with weapons on the other. A little table rested in one corner, covered with parchment.

There was enmity between the two, Ser Kevan and Thoros, and Harry learned that years before, when the portly old knight still participated in tourneys, Thoros had bested him in the melee several times.

"It was that flaming blade of his," Ser Kevan explained as they dined on rabbit stewed in onions and leeks. "Damned fire spooked my horse - there was little I could do."

Ser Harwick reminded him somewhat of Stannis. He was a prickly sort, and took most everything as a slight. One evening as they dined, Harry had taken the last buttered roll, and Ser Harwick had glared at him as if he had served the knight a grievous injury. Ser Benningtyn had laughed uproariously, rocking so hard he spilled wine on his doublet. The Moreland knight was often found in Tyrion's company - they shared a love of wine and women matched only by Thoros and the king.

One overcast morning, as they trekked deeper into the mountain range, their mounts ambling along a rolling path, Harry asked Thoros what he'd meant when he said he'd seen their journey 'written in flames.'

The red-robed priest rode beside him on his matching mare, whistling a Myrish tune, a flask of foul-smelling black liquid hanging from his neck. Harry's guardsmen formed a loose half-circle at their back, and Ser Barristan rode on his other side, silent as the mountains themselves.

"I meant just that," Thoros said. "The Red God sometimes gifts his followers with visions in flames. I hadn't one in nigh two decades." His eyes found Harry's, and he saw in them the same weight he had seen in Aeryn's gaze. "And then _you_ were born. I saw it, your birth, months before it came to pass. And I saw _this_. Not the hills, or the mountains, or the horses... just you."

Harry was silent as he contemplated the red priest's words. It was a worrying prospect, having unknown men and women aware of _who_ he was, aware of his _otherness_. Just how many followers of R'hllor had seen him in their flames? Had Amaerys? And did Thoros know of his magic? He couldn't recall him ever so much as hinting at it... but there _had_ been that odd look the red priest had given him when he discovered him with Elia. It seemed so long ago...

"You saw _me_ in your flames?"

"Not you, exactly," explained Thoros. The rise and fall of his mare made his jowls shake. "An image that represented you. I only recently realized what it meant." He must've seen the inquiry in Harry's' eyes, for he answered his unspoken question. "A black lion, dark as night, with eyes green as liquid wildfire."

That wasn't the first time he'd been referred to as a 'black lion.' But why a black lion and not a black stag? He was still his father's son. "How did you know to accompany me if that was all the flames revealed? How did you even know _I_ was the lion in your vision?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Barristan studying him with sharp eyes.

Thoros shrugged. "Just a hunch, really." He sipped from his flask and winced at the sharp taste.

"You're riding near three-hundred leagues based on a hunch?" Harry didn't quite believe that.

"You rekindled my faith," he said as if that explained it. Harry supposed it did.

He wondered if Aeryn had visions of him too, if she saw him as a black lion, as Thoros claimed _he_ saw...

The trail dipped suddenly, dropping into a steep decline. Harry shifted in his saddle and shook his head to get the hair out of his face. "Are there many Red Priests across the Narrow Sea? Maester Wulfric says that R'hllor is to Essos as the Seven are to Westeros."

"That's stretching it a bit. There _are_ red temples in most all of the Free Cities, and there's a a truly massive one in Lys. Bigger even than your Great Sept. But Essos is home to other gods as well - the Black Goat of Qohor, the love goddess of Lys, the Lion of Night in Yi Ti, The Crab King and the Weeping Woman and Mother Rhoyne... I could spend hours naming them all."

He knew of Yi Ti. Basilisks roamed its jungles. "Why do they have so many?"

Thoros laughed. "I'm not sure. There are some who believe all the gods of men are but different aspects of a singular entity."

"Like the Seven."

The red priest nodded. "Like the Seven."

Harry mulled over his words, absently stroking Flatfoot's shining, black mane. "Is that your belief?"

"No," said Thoros. "Not quite."

_'Not quite indeed,'_ Harry thought. Thoros had mentioned he had regained his faith, and Harry didn't think the priest one to follow a different god, or gods. "Do they do magic, your priests? Work spells over their fires?"

"Aye, that they do." He smirked.

Mayhaps magic wasn't so far gone as Maester Pycelle liked to say. "What sorts?"

"Oh, this and that,"

Harry frowned. "This and that?" He tugged the reins and veered Flatfoot nearer Thoros so the red priest could better see his glare.

He did, and his laugh startled a flock of birds from their resting place along the cliffs looming over the road. "I can only speak for certain of what _I_ can do, Harry. And that isn't much. Just a few tricks with fire."

Tricks with fire? Harry was familiar with fire. He thought of the nights he spent tossing a ball of flame from one hand to the other, or wandering dark passages with his hands alight. He thought of all the times he had attempted a spell only to conjure flames, all the boots and tapestries he had ruined, all the candles consumed.

He was _very_ familiar with fire.

"Far east there lies a city on the Jade Sea called Asshai-by-the-Shadow," Thoros said. He paused and took another pull from the flask.

_'Well,'_ Harry thought. _'That's not ominous at all.'_ He kept his silence, assuming the red priest had more to say.

"They say magic is strong there," Thoros continued. "They say the Asshai'i are well versed in the arcane arts."

"_They_ say_, _huh? And you believe this as truth?"

He had a burning desire to visit this 'Asshai', to see for himself what wonders it had to offer. If even there were but a scant few magical practitioners in the city, it would be well worth the visit. So far as he knew, so far as he had been _told_, there were no such people in Westeros. Except, mayhaps, beyond the wall. There were all sorts of outlandish stories about Wildlings.

"I do," said Thoros.

The path curved around a jutting crag, loose rocks lying in the road. "But you've never seen it for yourself."

"You ask a lot of questions, my prince," Thoros said, chuckling. "I never realized you were so inquisitive."

"Do _you_ do magic?" he asked, ignoring the red priest's statement. "Besides your 'tricks with fire'." He watched Thoros closely; he was quite interested in the answer.

Thoros still had a slight smile when he spoke. "Of a sort. Nothing spectacular or noteworthy. Just tricks, like I said."

He was lying; Harry felt it in his bones, heard it reverberate through his head. He said nothing of it though - he trusted Thoros. There must've been a reason he withheld the truth.

"What else have you seen in your visions?"

It was shocking, the change that came to Thoros. The priest sobered up near instantly, crooked smile straightening into a tight line. He was long in answering. So long that Harry thought he would keep his silence.

"Death," he said at last. "Death... and war."

* * *

Days later they set camp at the Deep Den, the seat of House Lydden. Lannisport was roughly ten days' ride ahead.

The keep was carved into the base of a mountain, all dreary dark stone tinted green. The oaken gate leading into the keep seemed as if a mouth, wide and gaping with a jagged stone crown at its top.

_'Pikes,'_ Harry throught when the keep came into view. _'A crown of stone pikes.'_

The House's banner - a white badger on per pale green and brown - flew above the portcullis, flapping in the cool highland breeze. A waterfall some thirty feet across cascaded down the mountainside, fed by a thin remnant of the Mander river as it stretched north from the Reach. The water fell into a lake as blue as clear summer skies, acting as a moat for the keep's eastern flank. The lake curled around to the front of the mountain bordering the path, and narrowed into a thin, rocky stream that flowed through a copse of cypress and pine trees framing the road.

The men made camp outside the keep in the rocky outcroppings and along the muddied shores of the lake. The Lord of Deep Den had invited a select few - the knights of renown and the sons of lords - to enjoy his hospitality. One of his sons - "Ser Ernald," Ser Wenfryd told him - met them at the gate, servants spilling out behind him to collect their things.

Ser Ernald was short and stocky with arms as big a round as casks of ale. He had a small, round head topped with thick brown hair and a close cropped beard. He wore a drab, long skirted doublet that hung to his thighs, and woolen breeches beneath.

"I trust your journey was well," he said to Kevan, as if they had been making for Deep Den all the while. His voice was lighter than Harry had expected it to be, judging by his girth.

They had only stopped at Deep Den because of its convenience - it sat right on the main road - and Ser Kevan's desire to feast on better prepared food than the trout and rabbit they usually enjoyed on the road.

"Our journey was quite well," Kevan returned, "but where is your Lord father?"

Custom dictated that Lord Lewys meet them at the gates. His absence could be conceived as a slight.

"Terrorizing the cooks," Ernald replied. "A few of the younger lads spotted your party some ways out - he's been in the kitchens ever since."

Ser Kevan was satisfied with the answer, because his fat face spread in a smile. "In that case, allow me to introduce Prince Harry Baratheon, second son of King Robert and future heir of Casterly Rock." He gestured to Harry.

Ser Ernald had already seen him - had glimpsed him out the corner of his eyes, and only just barely refrained from staring.

_'He's probably heard of what happened to Allar Deem and Toret,'_ Harry thought.

"Good morrow," he said with a soft smile, dipping his head in a slight bow. He had seen his father charm enough Lords to know the trade. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Ernald. I appreciate you and your lord Father allowing us use of your keep." He glanced around at the scenery, his face a mask of wonder. A _faux_ mask. "I must say, it's quite unique. I've never seen anything like it." He spoke the truth. He had never seen a keep carved into a mountain, nor one as gloomy as Deep Den.

Ser Ernald smiled. "Your flattery is well received, my prince." He invited them inside to enjoy a feast "in the Prince's name."

Ser Wenfryd forwent his place at the table to act as his guard. He didn't much care for the Lyddens.

"My brother's lands are south of here," he had told to Harry just moments before they rode into the Deep Den, "just east of Silverhill. We've a little silver to mine and land to farm, and enough fodder to support livestock as well." And then his eyes had darkened. "Lydden's bastards take liberties where they ought not." Harry had inquired as to what he meant, but Ser Wenfryd had yet to answer.

Harry left Ser Brenden behind with the rest of his guardsmen to keep an eye on Aeryn. She still rarely ventured far from the wagon she often rode in, unless Harry was around. They knew to keep their distance, his guards, as she was still somewhat skittish, and since she had learned to wield a dagger, Harry was somewhat worried she might actually try to use it if she felt threatened. He prayed such an event never came to pass. She was more skilled than she had been, but as she had been shit before, that wasn't saying much.

Ser Ernald escorted them through dank, windowless halls thick with the smell of burning tallow. There was no natural light in the keep, every corner kept bright with torches set into metal brackets along the rough hewn walls and braziers lining the floor. The thin smoke from the fires rose through cracks in the ceilings.

The entrance hall curved down a narrow passage into a cavern scarcely a fraction of the size of the Great Hall at the Red Keep. Glistening silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling in-between twisting pillars of stone, stout badgers carved into their bases. The floor was cut smooth and polished to a shine, reflecting the candle-light from the chandeliers hanging above.

Lord Lewys, a graying man of an age with Ser Kevan, solidly built with a long, flat face, hooked nose, and thick beard, stood in the middle of the room before a large table carved from pine. He wore a quilted jacket striped in his house colors, and loose leather breeches. His wife, the Lady Tessa, stood with him in a light green velvet and ermine gown. She was much younger than her husband, Harry could tell, and short with shapely hips and long, copper-toned hair falling over a diamond shaped face. She was a stately woman, but there was a softness to her, in the curve of her mouth and the gentle slope of her nose.

Two girls stood with them as well. One was shorter than Harry, plain-faced and stocky with short brown hair. Her gown was as plain as her face, a sort of muddied brown highlighted with flecks of white. The other was clearly older, but not much taller. She had the look of her mother, but her face was softer, with eyes so brown as to appear black. She wasn't as shapely as her mother, but the hint was there, where her gown of purple pastels flared out from her hips. Both stared at their feet when he entered, and he resigned himself to a day of fending off awkward advances as so oft had happened when lords brought their daughters to the Red Keep.

Behind them stood a row of four men, all dressed in the livery of House Lydden. Each bore a resemblance to Lord Lewys, but none had the look of Lady Tessa about them, and a few were simply too old to have been hers.

_'These must be the bastards Ser Wenfryd spoke of,'_ Harry thought.

They were arranged from tallest to shortest. The man furthest to the left was tall as Joffrey's dog, but thin as a reed, with lank black hair. The one beside him was marginally shorter, but wider, with a beard to match his father's. The other two were wider still, with round heads like Ernald, and close-set beady eyes set in flat faces.

"Welcome!" Lord Lewys announced. He looked over each of them, surprise showing in his face when he noticed Ser Barristan, but his eyes lay on Harry the longest. "Good morrow to you all." He and Ser Kevan clasped hands. "And this is the prince, I presume?"

"You presume correct, my lord." Harry said. He bowed as he had to Ser Ernald, and walked forward to observe the niceties.

He took Lady Tessa's hand in his and brushed his lips to her knuckles, then did the same to each of his daughters. The lady smiled down at him, her rouged lips parted just so.

"My lady shines with a radiance to match the sun," he said to her. Her smile broadened, and she appeared impressed. "Your hospitality is well received."

She curtsied deeply, her skirts spilling about the floor.

Lord Lewys greeted each of the men assembled, starting with Ser Barristan and ending with Tyrion. It was a slight, and none too subtle. He then looked to each of his daughters.

"My daughters have forgotten their manners. Go on then," he said. "Introduce yourselves."

The stocky girl spoke first. "I am Lewanne," she said, and curtsied. It was _terrible_, and she nearly stumbled over herself.

"And I am Elaine, my prince," said the other girl. Her voice was light and cool, like a faint autumn breeze. She curtsied as well, far more gracefully than her sister, glancing up as she did. Her cheeks were flushed.

"You're famished, no doubt, after such a journey." said Lord Lewys.

"That we are," Ser Kevan agreed. "We've been on the road for quite some while. But I would not sully your table, my lord. Allow us time to freshen up before we dine."

"Of course, of course," Lord Lewys said. He glanced between each of his daughters, and his eyes darted to Harry again. "Elaine, show the Prince to the guest quarters."

_'Wise choice,'_ Harry thought. She was pretty at least. Almost as pretty as Aeryn. Almost.

"And I will show Ser Kevan and his men to theirs," Lady Tessa said in dulcet tones.

"Might we have wine as well?" Tyrion asked Lady Tessa, ignoring Lord Lewys completely. "I'm quite parched."

"Of course, my lord." She looked to her husband.

Lord Lewys stared down at Tyrion, the hint of a frown on his face. "Yes, of course." He clapped his hands, and a team of servants seemed to appear from a darkened corner on the far side of the hall. He gestured to one of them, an old, haggard woman with a sunken face. "Fetch Lord Tyrion some wine."

She peeled away from the group and collected a large silver flagon from the kitchens beyond the hall.

"Ah, good," Tyrion said when she returned with the wine. "But I'll need more," he told her. He turned to Harry as they walked from the hall, Lady Tessa and Elaine leading them. "I'll need to drink wine for two men to bear this dreadful place. I've been to lichyards not half as bleak." He didn't much temper his voice.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw Lord Lewys glaring at Tyrion's back. _'Serves you right,'_ he thought.

"And good touch, with the honeyed words," his uncle told him, quieter this time. "I doubt Lady Tessa has heard anything as eloquent in such boorish company. I've taught you well."

They left the hall in one large cluster, but when they came upon an intersection in the hall, Elaine led Harry to the left while Lady Tessa led the others to the right.

_'And thus it begins.'_

She was silent at first, wringing her hands nervously as they walked. The floor fell gradually, winding deeper into the mountain. The stone was darker than the higher levels of the keep, and glistened in the torch-light. Occasionally a servant scurried by, most all of them a bedraggled sort, a far cry from the servants at the Red Keep. Ser Wenfryd followed behind them at a respectful distance.

Harry felt no need to breach the silence - he had a lot on his mind, seemed to _always_ have a lot on his mind, and he enjoyed having time to think.

Elaine stopped walking. "Is it true?" she asked suddenly, turning around to face him. She looked at him for only a second before she cast her eyes down again.

"Is what true?" he returned, though he full well knew what she meant.

"What they say..."

"And what do they say?"

One of Ser Lyle's squires, Marvell Brax, a burly young lad and nephew to Lord Andros of Hornvale, had made mention of gruesome stories circulating throughout countryside, each more outlandish than the last. It was quite likely that Elaine had heard one of them.

"That you... that you..." She stopped and cleared her throat. "That you cut two men into seven pieces," she said all at once. "For raping a young girl."

If the memory wasn't so fresh in Harry's mind, even nearly a month after the fact, he could've laughed. "There weren't seven pieces," he said, voice solemn. "There were six."

She gulped and looked anywhere but at him. "Six?" She started walking once more.

"Their bodies were still whole," he explained as he followed. "One man lost two hands, and the other a hand and something more... _personal_."

"Oh." Her eyes were wide, and her eyebrows arched high on her forehead.

Harry saw a man skulking in the distance, further down the hall . He was tall, with thin, straw colored hair, and the look of Lord Lewys about him. He was dressed in mail, and carried both an axe and a sword at his waist. When he noticed them he stepped back into the shadows, but Harry had already seen the deep scowl set in his face.

"Who is that man?" He nodded towards the dark figure.

Elaine hadn't noticed him. "Ser Roland?" she said after glancing down the hall. Her voice gained strength. "He's one of my father's _bastards_. The worst of the lot."

"He does look a bit... unpleasant."

"He gave insult to my mother," she said. "And for that, father is sending him away. Good riddance, I say." Her cheeks darkened with color, and he could tell she was angry, but her voice stayed light.

"What did he do?"

Elaine blushed. "I shan't repeat his vile words."

Harry eyed the tall man. "That bad, eh?"

The hall opened up to another passageway on the left, a narrow path with walls covered in fraying tapestries of wrestling badgers and handsome castles sitting atop mountains. At the end of the hall lay his quarters.

"Do you really think my mother so beautiful?"

"I do." His mother put her to shame, and she wasn't as eye catching as Amaerys, but he couldn't deny the Lady Tessa's beauty.

"My father never says such things to her."

"Is that so?" he replied with no real feeling.

He didn't much care what Lord Lewys said to anyone. He was ready to eat, sleep, and be back on the road. He wondered if they would have garlic crusted ribs; he had shared a rack with the Nameless once, and Aeryn had proclaimed it her favorite meal. He would bring her some, if they had it.

One of the tapestries had caught his eye. It was a castle in ruins, once mighty walls crumbled to bits. A gold lion rampant stood in the midst of the blackened debris, roaring up into the sun.

"That's Tarbeck Hall," Elaine told him. "Lord Tywin laid waste to the castle. They say it collapsed with its occupants still inside."

"So it did."

He was well versed in the history of the Westerlands - his mother would've allowed no less. He had learned of the rebellion from Lord Tywin himself. House Tarbeck and House Reyne had taken arms against the Lannisters, and Lord Tywin, barely yet a man, had crushed them as if an insect beneath his boot. _'How many babes did he kill then?'_ he wondered.

"Do you have one of Castamere as well?" he asked her.

"There's one in the hall leading to my father's chambers." She gazed at him from under curled eyelashes. "People tell me I have the look of my mother."

He wondered if Tarbeck Hall was still in ruin, or if Lord Tywin had it rebuilt and granted to another loyal vassal. "You do," he replied absently, stepping past her into the room.

It was much larger than he had anticipated. A canopied bed sat off in the corner, framed by two stone end-tables. A bowl of steaming water sat on the end-table nearest him, and beside it, his gilded chest of finery. There was a wardrobe along the opposite wall, carved from pine, a bronze candelabra set with seven candles to the left of it. There were torches on either side of the door, and a polished silver mirror beside the wardrobe.

"I will wait outside while you prepare," said Elaine. She was smiling, and seemed to be preparing herself for something, if her deep, measured breathing was anything to go by.

"I'll be swift," he told her, and looked to Ser Wenfryd. "Keep my lady company, please ser."

"Of course, my prince." His tone was pious, but he was smirking as he drew nearer. He leaned closer to Harry and whispered in his ear, "Careful of this one - she looks as if she's about to jump your bones!"

Harry glanced at Elaine - she certainly looked pleased, but she was squinting as if her vision was bad. Just moments ago her eyes had been wide as saucers. _'Mayhaps the fire-light hurts her eyes,'_ he thought.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stripped to his underclothes and washed himself, taking care to scrub the dirt from his hair. He had not washed it once, before a feast, and his mother had given him a frown so severe he never dared do it again. He found a comb carved of stone behind the bowl, and put it to use. When he judged himself clean, he donned a black quilted doublet, black leather breeches and black boots lined with fox fur. _'If people are so intent on labeling me a black lion, I should look the part.'_ He left his hair down. Thick and wavy, he could almost imagine it a mane.

When he stepped into the hall, only Elaine was there.

He glanced around. "Where is Ser Wenfryd?"

"I sent him to the end of the hall to watch for a servant. I thought you might be parched. We've sweet milk, and mead, if you want." She was _awfully_ close. Close enough that he could see the specks of amber in her eyes that he hadn't noticed before.

"I'll wai - "

And then she leaned in and kissed him.

He was too shocked to do anything but stand there stupidly. He hadn't thought her the brazen type. Her lips were soft, but dry, and tasted of blueberries and sweet cream.

_'This is your first kiss,'_ he thought. It wasn't half bad.

His wits returned to him a second later. He put his hands to her shoulders and gently pushed her away. Her eyes were closed, and her lips still puckered.

"Elaine," he said firmly, and she opened her eyes. "You shouldn't have done that."

He didn't mind Elaine. She wasn't as dull as some lord's daughters - she spoke without prompting, at least - and she was pretty enough... but there was no fire to her. No _spark_. She was a meadow in midsummer, all gentle, rustling leaves and still, cloudless skies. The most emotion he had seen her show was when she spoke of her bastard brother insulting her mother, and even then it wasn't much.

"I... I thought you liked me? You said I was pretty."

Harry didn't recall saying those words, not exactly. _'But I might as well have said them.'_ "That doesn't give you leave to _kiss_ me. What if I had taken offense?"

"I'm..." Her eyes watered. "I'm sorry," she said, and she sounded like she meant it. "My father told me that if I failed to charm you he'd have me sent to the Silent Sisters."

He figured Lord Lewys had been exaggerating in his threat. Nonetheless, it was a cruel thing to say. "I'm only nine." '_Seven hells_,' he thought. How much worse would things be when he grew older?

"Yes, my prince, I know... _he_ knows, but... you won't be nine forever."

_'No,'_ he thought. _'I guess I won't.'_

They walked back to the Great Hall in silence. Elaine followed him this time. She wrung her fingers the whole while and never once looked up.

"Do you like me, even a little?" she said to her feet.

He could scarcely hear her, so soft was her voice. _'No, not really,'_ he thought. "I've only just met you," he said instead. "But you _are_ pretty." He could admit that, at least.

Elaine beamed at him, but said nothing else. Her smile carried her all the way back to the Great Hall.

The old lord sat Harry with his daughters and gave him choice pick of every tray the servants brought out. Ser Kevan sat to his other side, in crimson and gold finery, and Ser Barristan beside him, resplendent in all white, from his doublet to his breeches. Ser Lyle was placed next to him, cloaked in the colors of his house, then Ser Benningtyn, and Ser Harwick, on down to Tyrion, in a gilded jerkin over a red tunic with burgundy leather breeches. The few squires who had been invited to feast sat at the very end of the table. Quenten Banefort, named for his father, the Lord of Banefort, headed the group of squires, with Herbert Plumm beside him, then Marvell, Bertram Estren, and half a score of others whose names he could not remember. Lord Lewys's bastards did not eat with them.

They feasted on fresh baked buttered bread and roasted meats - beef, and pork, and lamb - swimming in mead. Despite the mead, the meat was tough, and difficult to chew. They had sweet pumpkin soup too, one of Harry's favorites, and turnips soaked in butter. They had snails in honey and butter as well, served with thin strips of chicken stewed with garlic and herbs. He didn't care much for the snails - he didn't like the texture - and the chicken was dry. There was a sour red wine that Ser Lyle seemed to favor, and for dessert they had iced blueberries and sweet cream.

_'Elaine must've sampled the dessert,'_ Harry thought. As he ate, he caught her staring at him, a heavy blush across her cheeks.

Lord Lewys had invited a man called Tom O'Sevenstreams to sing and play his harp. He was a small, older gent with a big mouth, pointed nose, and thin brown hair. He was an excellent singer, and an even better harpist, and he regaled them with a melodious but somber tune. It was a new song - Harry hadn't heard it before. Tom sang of a boy not yet a man, and his terrible vengeance against curs who had harmed his beloved.

"The Ballad of the Black Prince," he called it.

* * *

After the feast, Ser Kevan called Harry to his chambers. Tyrion accompanied him. They walked together in comfortable silence down the tomblike passageway to a small room on the second level of the keep at the end of a wide hall.

Ser Kevan's chambers were smaller than Harry's, and sparse, but comfortably furnished. There was a stone table along the far wall framed with rickety wooden chairs, a tall flagon of wine and several wooden cups resting on its top. A square bed set in the middle of the room, a vast cedar chest at its foot. There was a brazier to the right of the door and another sitting on the table.

Ser Kevan was standing when they entered. He noticed Tyrion, but made no mention of him. Instead, he took a seat at the table and poured himself a generous cup of dark red wine.

"That girl of yours," he began. "Aryelle or Aryanne - "

"Aeryn," Harry cut in. He had not moved to sit. "Her name is Aeryn."

"Whatever her name is, Lord Tywin won't approve of her." He sipped from his cup. "Won't like the hold she has over you, nor what the men might say of her."

"She isn't for him to approve of...nor does she have a hold over me." But that wasn't necessarily true, was it? He pushed on. "She's my friend, and because of our friendship, she came to great harm. I vowed to see her safe."

Kevan scoffed. "You're a prince and heir to the Westerlands, you don't have lowborn friends. It isn't done."

"It _wasn't_ done."

Ser Kevan grew annoyed. "And you'll be keeping her at Casterly Rock?"

"She'll work in the service of my dear aunt Genna," Tyrion said from by the doorway. "Who just so happens to be your sister. As she herself calls Casterly Rock home, it is safe to say that Aeryn shall call it home as well."

Kevan glared at Tyrion. "Need I tell him about -"

"Tysha?" he interrupted. "I've already told him." He waddled over to the table and poured himself a cup of wine before climbing into one of the seats. "I admit, the situations bear some token resemblance, but -" and he gulped down wine as if dying of thirst, "Harry is a good deal taller than I am, and not nearly as ugly. Nor did I have the sheer balls of our young heir when I was his age. I'm not sure I have them now."

Ser Kevan ignored Tyrion. "You care for this girl, for her safety?" he asked Harry.

Harry nodded. "I do."

"Then you should've left her at the capital."

"She's my _friend_," he repeated. "I couldn't just leave her. And she was raped for a fault of _mine_. I'm honor-bound to see her safe." Had Kevan not heard him?

The old, blond knight grimaced. "A distasteful business, that." He was silent for a while, tapping his fingers along the table top, then he sighed. "Lord Tywin doesn't enjoy surprises," he said.

"Oh?" Tyrion said. "You haven't sent ravens ahead to inform him of her presence? I find that hard to believe." He poured another glass. "But I'm sure he already knows - Lady Genna has probably mentioned her."

"She'll be perfectly safe at Casterly Rock, Ser Kevan," said Harry. "You needn't worry." But Harry worried. He was worried now - was she alright, back in camp? "You've heard the fates of the men who wronged her?" he asked the knight.

"We've just heard a bloody song about them!" exclaimed Ser Kevan.

Harry couldn't discern the emotion in his eyes, if he approved or not. "The truth, I mean."

"Most every man knows, and if they don't they will," Ser Kevan went on. "But could you do that to half-a-hundred men? Or more?"

'_**Yes**,'_ he thought. _'I certainly could.'_

"Lord Tywin might take offense to her presence. Any man with eyes can see her intentions," Ser Kevan continued. "Do _you_ not worry?"

"I do," he admitted, gaze downcast. "But for different reasons, I think." He looked up at Kevan then, eyes blazing. "It would take the Stranger himself to stay my hand from exacting vengeance on any who wrong her. She wears my cloak, Ser Kevan. She is under my protection - I made a vow to the Gods, and no man will see that vow broken. Neither Lord nor King." His face softened. "But we're not married, as Tyrion and Tysha were, nor will we be." He glanced over at Tyrion. "I know the duties required of my station," he said, voice somber.

Ser Kevan appeared thoughtful. "...You're serious about this, aren't you?" He grabbed a small wooden cup, filled it halfway with wine, and offered it to Harry.

"Very serious." He accepted the drink, took a sip and almost spat it out - the wine was sweet, but bitter.

Ser Kevan laughed. "Piss poor compared to Arbor Gold, isn't it?" His tone grew wistful, and he seemed to fall into his memories. "You've more of a mind than men thrice your age. You remind me of him, you know."

Tyrion gave his uncle a strange look, then turned a considering gaze to Harry.

"Who?" Harry asked, setting the cup on the table. Surely he didn't mean -

"Lord Tywin," said Ser Kevan. "There's a certain sharpness about you. An edge, like tempered steel. You'll do great things one day, methinks."

And there was Garrick again, staring at him from the shadows, luminous silver eyes like twin moons._ "After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great_."

"That's high praise coming from him, Harry," Tyrion said. "Ser Kevan has forever walked in my father's shadow - he knows better than most the greatness of Lord Tywin. He catches wind of it every time he spreads his arse to shit."

Ser Kevan's portly face reddened, and he seemed to be building himself up to an angry tirade, but Harry cut in before he could speak.

"May I ask you something, Ser Kevan?" He had never thought to ask Ser Kevan about the tragic events of the past. He hadn't seemed very approachable, before the trip.

The balding knight scowled at Tyrion for several seconds longer before turning back to Harry. "Go ahead."

"Were you with Lord Tywin during the Sack of King's Landing?"

Ser Kevan adopted a perplexed expression. Harry could see the question in his face, but the man answered anyway.

"No. I remained at Casterly Rock. He left me to continue raising the levies, should Robert have turned his forces against the West."

Harry had never considered that his father would've invaded the Westerlands. Didn't Tywin aid him against the Mad King?

"Why would he have turned against the West? Lord Tywin sacked King's Landing - Jaime _killed_ the King."

"The war was already over when Tywin set his forces to sack King's Landing," Ser Kevan said, "and he'd served as hand for twenty years - he and Aerys were friends, good friends, until Aerys went mad. Robert knew that. And Robert loved war. Loves it still."

He had heard something like that from Stannis, of his father's love for battle. "So how did he stop my father from invading the West?"

"...By proving his loyalty beyond a shadow of a doubt."

This was the truth that Harry was waiting for; the reasoning behind crimes most heinous. "And how did he do that?" he pressed.

"By securing Robert's throne." Ser Kevan looked to say no more, but Harry didn't need him to.

"By having Elia and her children killed, you mean."

Ser Kevan appeared uncomfortable with the direction their discussion was taking, and his face, already flushed from wine, grew redder still.

"He presented their bodies to my father wrapped in crimson cloaks... didn't he?"

The old knight rubbed his eyes with long, slow strokes. "How did you hear of this?"

"Bits and pieces of story from here and there. So that proved his loyalty then? Having Elia and her children murdered?"

"You're damn persistent, boy."

So he was just a boy now. Not, 'my prince,' but a boy. "I am," he said.

"Some would say too persistent."

Harry nodded. "They would."

"And stubborn as a bloody mule."

Harry just stared. He would not relent.

Ser Kevan rubbed his eyes again, and sighed. "He never meant for Elia to die," he admitted. "That was an unfortunate mistake."

_'Unfortunate indeed,'_ Harry thought, a scowl forming on his face. But unfortunate for whom? Gregor Clegane still yet drew breath, as did Lord Tywin; it certainly hadn't been unfortunate for _them_.

"So he meant for the babes to die, then? The Tyrells fought against my father and _they_ didn't have to murder children to be pardoned. Lord Mace laid seige to Storm's End for a year!"

"I'm not condoning what happened. But consider this, young Prince - the Tyrells can command a force near as large, if not larger than the Vale and the North combined. They could get by with merely bending the knee - a war against the Reach would've been folly, and Robert knew that. But against the West?" He shook his head. "Our men are the best trained in the land, but the majority of our food comes from the Riverlands and the Reach. They would've starved us in our castles. And if he truly desired a war, Robert, with the Reach behind him, plus the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, would've had the naval power to barricade our ports and invade from the coast, and the land power to march through our mountains and lay waste to us all. If he turned his forces against us, we'd have been crushed into dust."

"So he killed them based on a possibility?"

"Possibility? I think it more a certainty. You know nothing of your father's love for battle." Kevan regarded him with shrewd eyes. "Sit, Harry. You too Tyrion. You want to understand why Lord Tywin is the man that he is? I will tell you."

And he told them of his father, Tytos Lannister, and the shame he brought upon their house. Of his weakness, and his ineptitude. He spoke of his mistress, an unscrupulous lowborn woman, and his bannermen, laughing behind his back.

"Tywin seems a hard man," he began, "but he's no harder than he's had to be. Than he was _made_ to be. Our own father was gentle and amiable, but so weak his bannermen mocked him in their cups. Some saw fit to defy him openly. Lords borrowed his gold and never troubled to repay it, japed at court of toothless lions." Ser Kevan swallowed yet another cup of the bitter wine, and poured more.

"Even his own mistress stole from him," he said. "A woman scarcely one step above a whore, and she helped herself to my mother's jewels!" He pounded his fist to the table. "It fell to Tywin to restore our House to its proper place. Just as it fell to him to rule this realm, when he was no more than twenty. He bore that heavy burden for two decades and all it earned him was a mad king's envy. Instead of the honor he deserved, he was made to suffer slights beyond count, yet he gave the Seven Kingdoms peace, plenty and justice."

He looked to each of them, expression earnest. "He is a just man. He's saved more babes than he's killed - know that." Then he leaned back in his chair, cup half raised to his lips. "You may be called to make such tough decisions in the future, Harry, to choose between the lives of a few and the lives of many."

Harry was forcibly reminded of his conversation with Ser Barristan.

"Will you have the strength to do what's right," Ser Kevan went on, "to place the lives of your people above your honor, to be harsh, and cruel, in the name of peace?" He threw back the rest of the wine and stared into the flaming brazier on the table.

Harry had nothing to say to that. He had only his thoughts.

_'It is our choices that define us... and the time will come when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.'_

* * *

_per pale = sigil/shield/banner divided in vertical lines_


	7. The Rock of Casterly

**AN: **I present you Casterly Rock in all its glory. Thanks again to Jarik for his help, the guys at DLP for their suggestions, and catching my numerous typos, and all the reviewers as well. Some of the praise seems... 'outrageous', but I'm happy you all enjoy the story. The next few chapters shouldn't take as long as this one did.

There was to be a another scene with Lord Tywin at the end to round out the chapter, but it fits better at a later part in the story, so I kept the chapter as is.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter nor A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones.

* * *

On the fortieth day of their journey, they came upon Lannisport.

_'It's beautiful,'_ Harry thought, as he passed beneath its tall, foreboding walls. He took a deep breath of the salty air. _'And it doesn't stink. Much.'_

The city sprawled across a sweeping expanse of flatlands that fell into the Sunset Sea, all faint golds and dark reds, blanketed by a thin fog that made it seem as if a construct of a dream. The handsome buildings framing the wide, cobbled main street were cut from light tan stone, some adorned with archways of polished redwood, some glittering plaster with tall oriel windows of pale yellow glass, and others still topped with ornate domes set with bronze and brass sheets.

Ser Kevan sat at the head of their procession, decked in his house colors, Ser Cleos bearing the Lannister standard at his left flank, Harry and Ser Barristan at his right. Harry wore his shortsword at his waist, the silver pommel shining brilliantly in the sunlight. Ser Barristan's muted white ensemble was a stark contrast to Harry's black.

A line of knights led by Strongboar trailed in their wake, and a second line headed by Ser Lyonel followed behind Ser Cleos. Tyrion rode in-between the two lines, drunk in his saddle, with Maester Wulfric next to him, followed by Thoros, with Harry's guardsmen forming a loose column at his back. The squires rode behind the knights and guardsmen in tight rows, and the baggage train brought up the rear, a couple dozen covered wagons led by tall draft horses.

The train was flanked by ambitious freeriders from the sleepy towns along the Gold Road. They were farmboys with dreams of knighthood, a few in the old, tattered mail of their fathers and grandfathers, others in ragged boiled leather, and some in naught but doublets stuffed with wool, wielding wooden cudgels, rusted scythes, and crudely cut longbows.

Ser Kevan didn't think much of the freeriders. He considered them less than even sellswords.

"They, at least, can fight," he had told Harry one dark, windy day. They had been a few days out from Lannisport, sequestered at an Inn along the Goldroad. "All this group is good for is plowing fields and herding sheep."

Harry wasn't so quick to write the freeriders off. They were a ragged sort, most of them, but any man could learn to wield a blade, if he was dedicated enough. All one needed was an opportunity, and he was of a mind to grant it, if they proved themselves men of honor.

He couldn't enforce equality, but if a man was judged worthy, he could be made a knight. Certainly a serious undertaking, and not for the faint of heart, but it was _something_. And how many of them would get the chance otherwise?

_'Ser Barristan could help me,'_ he thought, looking aside to the old knight. _'He might consider it a noble cause.'_

The matter bore further consideration, at the least.

They walked the horses at a comfortable pace to the west side of the city along a gently curving path, beneath a lanky archway of red brick and ashen stone. They passed carts of bulky burlap bundles and storefronts with merchants selling lavishly embroidered goldwork, the tapestries woven with ruby silk and cloth-of-gold.

Women in rich finery bargained for perfumes in a minor square, the air heavy with sweet, fruity scents, and he saw a line of men - miners, by the grit of their faces - standing at the entrance to a tavern of tan plaster and sanded chestnut. A small group of swarthy men-at-arms in piecemeal mail and plate stood guard over a colorfully dressed, dark-haired woman as she picked through a display of herbs and spices, and beside them, a handful of bright-faced, straw-haired children weaved through a cluster of fair-skinned ladies with parasols, laughing gaily. The men of the city watch, "Red Cloaks," he had heard Cassius call them, were arrayed in a well spaced line to either side of the road, their silver breastplates beaming under the golden glow of the sun, halberds held erect in their fists.

A thin crowd had gathered in the main square, at the crossing of an avenue of silver-smiths and jewelers, in the shadow of a white, spindly tower topped with a golden seven-pointed star. More people approached in the distance as they noticed the Lannister lion flying high at the head of the group. A second tower stood a block over, shorter and wider than the first.

Harry craned his head back to gaze upon the towers' massive heights, and he saw septons and septas looking down at him from open windows. _'Hmm... a septry,'_ he thought, looking from one to the other, _'and a motherhouse.'_ He glanced over his shoulder at Thoros and wondered how the priests of R'hllor organized themselves, what sort of vows they took. _'Certainly not a vow of celibacy.'_

Wispy haired crones threw garlands of black flowers at the feet of his horse as he rode past, gazing upon him with solemn eyes, mumbling what sounded like prayers to the Seven. A short row of septas clothed in hooded blue robes, holding candles of the same color, sang to the Maiden in sweet, hallowed tones, while another group, cloaked in white, hummed to the Mother.

_'They're singing for Aeryn,'_ he thought. She too, had been mentioned in his ballad, and described well enough that if she was seen in his presence, people would know she was the one spoken of in the song.

'A maiden fair with hair of silver and gold,' Tom O'sevenstreams had called her.

From out of the throng he heard a young, rambunctious voice yell, "Hail the Black Prince!" and it was echoed down the lane. He looked into the crowd to see bright faces of young lads and burgeoning men, and he could just imagine their fanciful thoughts and romantic ideas, born of the tales circling his name.

Ser Lyle released a thunderous laugh at the first shout of his moniker and grinned at Harry. "A fine name, methinks!"

If he had been any closer to Strongboar the man would've clapped him on his back in his mirth, he thought. _'And most likely knocked me from my horse.'_

But then his eyes swept the other faces, the men in their tunics and doublets, some of threadbare wool, others of silk and velvet, and the women in their gowns, spun from brown cotton or lively foreign lace, some with babes nestled at their breasts, others with children hugging at their skirts. Some of them smiled broadly, waving with vigor, but others were not so taken with him, wary of the stories, and others still were ambivalent, teetering on the edge of either. Harry could almost hear the question in their minds.

Who was this dark boy who had caught their lord's eye and inspired such grave ballads?

"A fine name indeed," Tyrion said, wavering in his saddle, words slurred. "Fine enough, I think, that it deserves a drink. Or three. What the hell, I'll just finish the whole damned thing."

Harry was certain his uncle would poison himself from all the wine he imbibed.

Tyrion raised his wineskin. "Hail the Black Prince!" Then he tipped the skin back, drinking so fast rivulets of wine spilled down his cheeks.

"That's the ninth skin," Ser Barristan observed from beside Harry.

"No," Harry said, shaking his head with a soft smile. "That was the tenth." _'How is he even awake right now?'_ He had seen some of his father's men pass out from less.

"Hail the Black Prince!" Thoros said with a grin, thrusting a fist into the air.

"Hail the Black Prince!" Terryck repeated, and he too drunk from a wineskin, but he had only ale, and he did not drink as vigorously as Tyrion. "And his lovely fair-haired maiden," he added, quieter than before. The guardsman had referred to Aeryn as thus since they had left the Deep Den, after a night spent drinking with the singer.

More shouts rang from the crowds, and Harry, a faint blush on his cheeks, waved to the masses. He was used to attention, but not on such a level. This was different from what he experienced in King's Landing. Here, there was neither a king nor a queen to garner the eye of the crowd. When mobs had followed him through the streets of the capital there had been a sort of lightness to their patronage, a gaiety that was lacking in Lannisport. He had grown up in those streets; the smallfolk of King's Landing had seen him raised from a babe to a boy, had been privy to namedays and tourneys and his many flights of fancy, had walked with him, shared food with him, even prayed with him.

These people had only stories by which to judge. Stories and songs. The weight of their scrutiny settled on him and him alone.

"The name's certainly ominous," he heard Ser Brenden say from his spot behind Thoros. He muttered something else, but Harry couldn't hear him over the clatter of hooves and the low buzz of the crowd.

"It suits you," said Ser Wenfryd as he broke the line and rode up beside him. "Especially since you've worn naught but black this past week."

They had ridden though four more such squares as the first. People were dispersed all along the street, pushed to either side of the road as the party passed by.

"Mayhaps," Harry replied. "Aeryn seems to think red my color."

She had cut a red sash for him to wear from a sheet of velvet, and had goaded one of the camp women into fashioning him a red cloak as well, with an ermine collar and trimmings.

"Red?" Ser Wenfryd laughed. "Your hair is black, your clothes are black, even your _mood_ has been a bit black. Where did she get red out of all of that?"

"Red is the color of fire," Harry said. _'And the color of her god.'_

Ser Barristan was quiet, but Harry could almost _feel_ his eyes on him.

"Fire," Ser Wenfryd repeated, studying him. "What have you to do with fire?"

"Everything," Thoros said. He had been listening. "Aeryn is right, my prince. Red is your color."

"Red like your god, priest?" questioned Ser Barristan. He didn't seem to approve of the connotation.

"Not my god," Thoros said. "**The** god. You too, Ser Barristan, will come to see the truth of it." His eyes swept the knights, the guardsmen, and the people in the streets. "You all will come to see the truth of it."

_'Now that,'_ Harry thought, _'was ominous.'_

"Show me proof of your god, Thoros - something more than a flaming sword - and we'll see what truth there is," Ser Wenfryd said.

"You'll have your proof, good ser, in the time to come."

Harry wasn't so confident of Thoros's 'proof'. Gods were beyond the understandings of men. Even he didn't understand how he came to be as he was. He had theories, _ideas_, but no true evidence. Men could neither fathom the intricacies of creation, nor the complexities of death. They knew nothing of life and its magic, only what they could see and feel and influence. What they could _interpret_. A man could no more prove the existence of a god than the moon could grow legs and walk the earth.

He meant to say such, but then he saw, unfolding out of the fog, a great fist of a mountain looming over the city as the sun loomed over the earth, tall and stout, a behemoth so massive it was dizzying, and his words died in his throat.

_'The Rock,'_ he thought, eyes wide. What did some invisible, untouchable god matter in the face of such majesty? The mountain was so tall he could scarcely see its peak.

_'Aeryn should see this. Myrcella too.'_

And Fat Lip. _'May his soul rest peacefully.'_

Ser Wenfryd recognized the awe on his face. "Casterly Rock is the grandest castle in all of Westeros," he said. "Only Harrenhal is bigger, and it's in ruins."

_'Thanks to Balerion the Black Dread,'_ Harry thought. Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon had set Harrenhal's massive towers aflame, roasting King Harren the Black and all his sons in their mighty stone fortress.

When the Conqueror turned his dragons upon the West and the Reach, King Loren, the first of his name, bent the knee after the battle heralded as 'The Field of Fire' while his fellow King, Mern the Ninth, perished. For King Loren's fealty, Casterly Rock was saved from the dragons' flames.

_'Dragons brought Westeros to its knees. Dragons bound the kingdoms. What binds them now?'_ Thoros had said he saw death and war in his fires. War from within, or war from without?

_'If these 'visions' are even dependable.'_ Divining the future was tricky business. That much he knew.

All the same, he couldn't just discount the warning. And was it really so farfetched? He had memories of a past life - it could very well be that Thoros could see the future in his fires, just as easily as Harry could see his hands gripping Flatfoot's reins.

They came upon a busy intersection where the road forked in three. One fork branched to the south and the harbor beyond, along a lane of timber and plaster buildings. Another grew to the north side of the city down a street of armories, and the third stretched up the slow-rising slope of the mountainside, to Casterly Rock amongst the clouds.

They took the path towards the summit of the mountain, the well traveled road bordered by lush forests of pine and white oak. Ser Benningtyn broke into song, 'Iron Lances,' by the sound of it, and he was joined by Ser Lyle, then Rowan, Ham, Alard, and Gerard too. Before long, most every man that knew the tune sang as loud as they could, no matter how terrible they sounded. Even Tyrion joined in, and Thoros behind him, passing a wineskin back and forth with each verse.

_'Where did they get a full wineskin?'_

"They sound like men dying," said Ser Derwyck. He had worked himself across the line to Harry's inside shoulder and rode at his left flank.

"Aye," Cassius agreed. "Men dying of vigorous buggery." He rode behind Ser Wenfryd, frowning at a few of his fellow guardsmen.

Harry grimaced, and his stomach turned. _'What a foul thing to say.'_ Trust Cassius to provide such a disgusting mental image.

He had yet to personally address Ser Derwyck's desire to join his guard. He certainly had coin enough to pay him - his personal stipend was sufficient to fund all of his guardsmen, for a time. Falk had named both Ser Derwyck and Ser Andar as decent men, but only time would tell if his assessment rang true. He could hardly remember Ser Derwyck's performance in the joust of moons' past, but he figured he must've done well. The red-haired youth had been _knighted_ because of it. That said nothing of his character though; merely his skill.

"Ham sounds the worst of the lot," said the Greyhand from behind Cassius, looking back at the pot-bellied blond. "Like a strangled boar."

"This ain't half as bad as some I've heard," he heard Terryck say over the cacophony.

"And it's still better than listening to Gerard and that massive whale of a woman he's been ruttin' with," said Cassius.

_'Seven hells,'_ Harry thought with a scowl. That was a second awful mental image, though not half so bad as the first. "I'd rather not hear of Gerard's habits," he told Cassius. "Or his woman. Especially when your own woman squeals like a pig."

Harry had heard Rowan complaining of the girl, some serving maid who had followed them from King's Landing. She had borne Cassius two of his many bastards, and made the best trout and leek stew Harry had ever tasted. Rowan had made mention of her squealing to Alard, and Harry overheard.

The men laughed at that, even Cassius himself. "Might be that one day you have the privilege to make a woman squeal like a pig, my prince," he said.

_'I'd rather my woman not squeal,'_ Harry thought. There was nothing appealing about squealing.

"His pigs will certainly be prettier than yours," said Ser Wenfryd.

"His pig's already prettier than mine."

Harry had given up trying to convince his guardsmen Aeryn wasn't 'his.' And thanks to his ballad, he wouldn't be able to convince anyone else either. He wondered what would Lord Tywin think - what truths he had assumed.

"An actual pig is prettier than yours, Langward," Ser Brenden said, looking back to Cassius. "Now fall in line," he told the assembled guardsmen. The singing had finally stopped. "We'll be upon the summit soon, and I'll not have our prince shamed by your lack of discipline."

The guards reformed their ranks as if they'd never broken them, wheeling their horses to line up snout-to-tail. Harry didn't hear a single grumble, nor was there more talk of pigs.

_'Thank the gods.'_ He knew they had been speaking of women, but in his mind's eye he saw pigs prancing about in gowns, squealing in fear as men chased behind them.

Some time later they came upon a square gatehouse born of pale, glistening granite sitting at the zenith of the rock. Turrets jutted from each corner, supported by corbels fashioned as snarling lions. Men stood in the open windows of the turrets, staring down at them with faces framed by mail coifs. The gatehouse was large enough to house a thousand men, if not more, and opened to a stone bridge so wide that fifty knights could comfortably ride abreast down its length.

Harry looked to Maester Wulfric riding in his wake. "Maester... how does it shine so?"

The maester had been relatively silent as they had ridden through the city. He wasn't a talkative man - Harry had long since learned that - but it was almost frightening how knowledgeable he was. He had begun to teach Harry to speak the High Valyrian that Grandmaester Pycelle had taught him to read, shared with him books the Grandmaester no doubt would've burned, and told stories Pycelle would never have uttered.

Maester Wulfric's watery brown eyes narrowed in thought. "I imagine there is quartz in the granite," he said. "That, I believe, grants it its sheen. Granite is an exceptionally hard stone - very difficult to breach, even with siege weapons."

A group of men waited before the gatehouse, to the right of the raised portcullis. Two sat atop coursers, decked in crimson finery embroidered with golden thread. The other ten were on foot, in dark, smoky steel plate lacquered with gold and carmine. One of the mounted men was old and thin, at least as old as Ser Kevan, with gray, receding hair, and a pug nose. The other was considerably younger, and solidly built, with a pug nose to match, yellow hair cut close to his head, wide, hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed beard over a strong jaw.

"Ser Stafford and his son, Ser Daven," Ser Wenfryd told him as they rode up. "Cousins of yours."

Ser Kevan greeted the men with a smile. "Ser Stafford, Ser Daven," he said with a nod to each. "Good morrow!"

"Took you long enough," said Ser Daven. "We've spent hours here waiting. My arse was starting to hurt."

"Mayhaps you should have gotten off your horse," returned Ser Kevan. "I've not heard Ser Stafford complain."

"Give it a moment," Ser Daven said, glancing over at his father.

"I'm sure he'll find something to complain about in short order," Tyrion announced from behind Ser Kevan. "Cousin Daven." He nodded to the knight. "Uncle Dolt."

"Is that Tyrion I hear?" Ser Daven leaned over in his saddle to look upon Tyrion. When he spotted him, his smile broadened. "It's the Imp himself, come to drink all our wine and fuck all our whores!"

"And gamble," Tyrion added. "You mustn't forget my propensity to gamble. I'm just as voracious a gambler as I am a drunkard and a whoremonger."

Ser Stafford scowled but he didn't so much as look at the dwarf.

"Don't call Ser Stafford 'Uncle Dolt'," Ser Kevan admonished. "Your mother was his sister. Show some respect."

"So sorry, Ser Kevan. Excuse my terrible manners. I meant to say _Ser_ Dolt."

Ser Daven chuckled while Ser Kevan shook his head, expression rueful. Ser Stafford's frown burrowed deeper into his face.

"How be you, cousin?" Ser Daven, at least, seemed to like Tyrion. The knight noticed his flushed face. "You're as red as a cherry!"

"And I intend to be redder still. Mayhaps we could bring some wine for Ser Stafford as well? It might help loosen the rod that's backed up his bowels all these years."

Ser Devan laughed uproariously, and walked his horse close enough to Tyrion to clap him on the back. "Casterly Rock has been dull in your long absence, cousin." He looked to Ser Barristan, and tipped his head in a show of respect. "Come have a look at a living legend," he said to the men assembled behind him. "This is Ser Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, if you couldn't tell from his armor, and his age." Ser Daven laughed - he seemed to do a lot of laughing. "Old as he is, he has more talent in his littlest finger than the lot of you. The best swordsman in all the Seven Kingdoms they say. Damn good to meet you, ser."

"Do refrain from kissing his arse any further," Tyrion said. "Any more and you'll have smoothed out all the wrinkles. I mean no offense, Ser Barristan," he added after a pause.

"None taken," the old ser replied calmly. He was always like that, it seemed; calm, almost passive, but in the way a mountain was passive, unaffected and unmoving.

Ser Stafford ignored his son, and he didn't even acknowledge Tyrion. Harry already didn't like him - even Lord Lewys had done that, at least. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure what to make of Ser Daven. The man was considerably outspoken, and he didn't mince words, but he smiled easily, and joked freely. He reminded Harry of his father, in that regard.

"Where is the prince?" Ser Stafford said, filmy eyes searching the crowd of knights and guardsmen.

Sometime along the road Ser Lyle had broken rank and pulled to the front of Harry's line, in front of Harry himself. Behind Strongboar's broad back, he was nigh invisible.

"Yes, where is the lad?" said Ser Daven. "Strange tales have trickled up the Gold Road from King's Landing. Handless men, cockless men; my squire made tale of two Gold Cloaks served to smallfolk in bowls of slop!" His gaze swept across the line and spotted Harry behind Ser Lyle, and his eyes lit up. "Strongboar! Move your wide arse out the way, let us have a look at our future lord."

Harry wheeled his horse around Ser Lyle as the knight moved aside, and pushed to the head of the party.

"He's smaller than I imagined," Ser Daven said to Tyrion. "But I can see how he got his name."

"He's nine," replied Tyrion. "How big did you expect him to be? He certainly seems large enough to me."

"_Everything_ probably seems 'large enough' to you," returned Ser Daven.

Harry didn't bother to hide his smile. If nothing else, Ser Daven was amusing. "Good sers." He nodded to each. He meant to say more, but he found his eyes drawn to the lustrous castle beyond. It was so grand as to appear magical.

Ser Daven followed his gaze. "Magnificent, isn't it? There is no finer castle in all the lands."

"Have you seen all the lands, Ser Daven?" Harry said, eyes never once wavering from the sight. It _was _magnificent.

Casterly Rock seemed but an extension of the mountain itself, with three soaring curtain walls surrounding the castle, each one taller than the last, with stout drum towers at each junction. Soldiers wielding crossbows walked the ramparts of the outermost wall, looking down at them from beneath stylized crimson halfhelms. The mountain rose into a grove of interconnected towers of pale, glinting, umber stone, topped with red spires like bloodied bodkin points, tapered to sharp tips. They seemed to pierce the sun itself, shimmering as if carved of diamond, speckled with grains of glittering quartz.

"I haven't seen all the lands, but I've seen enough," Ser Daven said, chuckling all the while. "No use gawking at it from afar. I mean to be back in the castle proper before I'm old and shriveled like my father."

Harry looked to Ser Stafford. He was certainly aged, but he wasn't _that_ old. He was thin, but there was still some solidness to him.

Ser Daven turned his horse to ride through the gate, and Ser Stafford followed him, Ser Kevan, Harry, and the other mounted men following in their wake.

"Good the bridge is so wide," he heard Ham say. The guardsman rode along the edge beside Gerard, peering over the bridge into the waters below. "That's a loooong drop."

"It's no wider than that road you call a mouth," said Cassius.

Harry shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. Cassius sort of grew on you, after a while. Like a fungus.

They passed beneath a barbican of shining tan stone, bastions rising from its corners, into the outer bailey. Barracks and granaries sprawled across the vast grassy incline, timbered structures fortified with stone. He saw hundreds of stables along the inside of the wall, sections of two score stalls sandwiched between buttresses big enough to support a mountain, with footholds leading to the ramparts above. The walls were so tall, once the gate closed behind him, he thought himself transported to another realm, closed off entirely from the outside world.

The middle ward was a courtyard of ornate columns, handsome statues and bright gardens lined with redwood benches, with cobbled walkways winding through the flora, the paths framed by neatly trimmed hedges. A pair of fair-haired women stood in one of the gardens, holding hands as they poured water into a glass basin atop an ashen stone pedestal.

The pair turned about when they heard the party riding through, each as pretty as a calm, summer meadow, both draped in bright crimson gowns laced with gold, roses woven into their golden locks. He could have thought them fairies, had they wings.

"Be mindful of my sisters," Ser Daven told him, nodding to the women. "They're a worrisome lot. They'll weave flowers in your hair and bathe you in scented oils, if you let them."

"Some of this group needs a bath," Tyrion said, bouncing in his saddle. "Several baths."

_'Several baths is right,'_ thought Harry. He glanced over at Gerard. The man seemed to not have bathed since they left the Deep Den. He had long since begun to smell.

"Cerenna is the oldest of the two, by a year." Ser Stafford said, glancing over at Harry. "But Myrielle is nearer your age - just three-and-ten."

Harry would have thought them older, from the look of Ser Stafford. Closer to Ser Daven's age at least. He seemed nearer Tyrion in age, but his beard added years to his face. He could have been anything from twenty to five-and-twenty.

A golden arcade stretched from the gate of the inner bailey into the heart of the castle. At its end lay a pair of massive red wood doors banded with golden bars, studded with black iron knobs crafted as lion heads positioned between the thick crisscrossing links. Two guardsmen stood to the left and right of the doors in full crimson plate, and pulled them open as they rode up.

The party dismounted before them, and a team of servants appeared from the hall beyond to lead their horses back down the road to the stables.

"All right then," Ser Daven began, "you lot," and he indicated the assorted group of guardsmen, squires and freeriders, "head to barracks on the north side of the keep. There's drink, food, and beds aplenty. And you two," he said, pointing from Ser Andar to Ser Derwyck standing behind the cluster of Westerland knights, "join them."

He stopped one of the bedraggled women carrying their belongings into the castle. "Settle the servants in their quarters," he told her.

The servant nodded her acquiescence. She was more girl than woman, with a ruddy, freckled face and thick brown hair. She stared at Harry as she scurried past, and nearly walked right into Ser Harwick. Only the prickly knight's warning growl stopped her in time.

Ser Daven and Ser Stafford led them into the castle proper, Harry, Maester Wulfric, Ser Barristan and Ser Kevan trailing them, followed by Tyrion, Thoros, and the westermen.

The spacious halls of Casterly Rock were lined with stained glass windows of red sunsets and golden lions rampant, and men atop mighty steeds draped in gold, charging some undepicted foe. Such light filtered through the many windows that there was no need for torches - all the gilded braziers were empty, the torches unlit. Thick red carpet stretched the length of the hall, the long sheets of velvet adorned with golden tassels.

A woman stood at the end of the hall where it split in two, before a pair of towering doors of red oak, etched with thin, winding streaks of gold enamel and set with rows of quartz. It too was flanked by guards as the entranceway had been, two tall men wielding pollaxes. The woman was heavyset, with a broad, smooth face, and long, thick, wavy blond hair streaked with gray.

She had been beautiful once, Harry thought, but her looks had since started to fade. Still, there was something regal about her, reflected in the light of her green eyes and the shining white of her satin gown.

"Lady Genna!" said Tyrion with a wide, goofy smile.

Harry stepped aside as his uncle pushed to the front of the group. He was clearly drunk, and had wobbled all the while as he walked down the hall.

"Tyrion." She eyed her nephew shrewdly, her husky voice garnished with honey. "Are you sure you've drunk enough, dear? You don't seem much able to keep your feet." She reached down and pulled the dwarf into a warm hug, pinching his cheeks as she released him.

"I expect I'll manage, my lady," Tyrion said as they separated. "This is an art I have spent many long hours perfecting. I'm the most able drunk in all the Seven Kingdoms. And the shortest. That makes my accomplishment twice as impressive because I'm half the size."

"Of course you are, dear." And then she turned her gaze on Harry. "And you must be Prince Harry. Come here child, let me have a look at you." She beckoned him closer.

Harry stepped between Ser Daven and Ser Kevan to stand before Lady Genna, staring up into her smooth face. She was tall, at least as tall as his mother, and _very_ wide. Her gown, despite the tightly laced golden bodice, bulged at her gut.

_'This is__ the woman who raised Tyrion. His mother, in all but name.'_

"My lady," he said with a bow. He kissed the back of her hand, and the smile he gave her was genuine.

"How charming," she said with a smile that stretched to her eyes. "And handsome." She tilted her head this way and that, studying him as if a painting. "Your hair is a bit amiss, and a touch too long, but otherwise, you're a well put together lad. Now come along, Harry dear. Lord Tywin beckons, and when Lord Tywin beckons, we lesser beings must obey. May I call you Harry?" Then she looked to Kevan, continuing on without waiting for his reply. "How was your trip, brother? I can't imagine all that time in the saddle was good for your hips. You're getting old, Kevan. We both are. Daven could've just as easily delivered Tywin's request."

"I've strength in me yet," Ser Kevan told his sister. "And _Lord_ Tywin bid me to act in his stead. I did my duty as requested of me."

"As you always have," Lady Genna returned. "But now that you're home, you can rest. So go," she said, pointing off down the hall, "rest. Leonard, darling?"

The taller of the two men guarding the doors turned to look at her.

"See to it that Ser Kevan arrives promptly in his chambers. No doubt his wife awaits him." She looked back to Ser Kevan. "Lady Dorna has missed you dearly, brother."

Ser Kevan smiled as he never had before, and glanced at the guard. "Stay at your post. I know the way to my chambers... and I don't need help getting there," he added to Lady Genna. His eyes swept the corridor, looking to each man present. "I bid you all farewell. Gods willing, we'll dine together at sundown." Then he walked off down the hall, past a long row of alcoves furnished with plush bronze stools and velvet curtains to match the carpet.

Lady Genna pulled Harry to her and started down the adjacent passageway. "Go on into the Lion's Mouth," she told the assembled party over her shoulder. "There's food enough for you strapping men. Oh, and have a drink for your dear aunt, Tyrion."

"I'll have four," Tyrion returned as the guard pushed the doors ajar.

Behind them, the group continued on into the great hall, and the oaken doors closed shut.

* * *

"I've heard much about you, Harry."

They walked down a hall of unlit gilded candelabras and silken tapestries bordered with gold thread, to a wide set of steps climbing to the heights of the castle.

"And I've heard much about you as well, my lady. Tyrion speaks highly of you."

"Is that so? Well," and she pinched his cheek, "we'll have to sit down one day and share all the tales we've heard of one another. We'll have chopped fruits and sweet cream, and I'll introduce you to all your cousins. Now be a good boy and help your great aunt up these stairs."

He took her arm, and they ascended to the second level of the keep. They crossed another golden arcade, and a rounded hall of gleaming chandeliers, before coming to a set of doors at the end of a bright passage, sunlight filtering through the dozens of windows. The doors opened to a slender stone bridge, wide enough for two, mayhaps three men to walk side by side across its length. It led to one of the mighty stone towers he had glimpsed from the gatehouse.

"Is this 'Aeryn' of yours as fair as the songs say?" she asked him.

He thought about it. "I suppose." The song hadn't really described her actual appearance, save her hair. It had mentioned nothing of the shape of her face, the tilt of her lips, the slant of her eyes. But her hair was near one of a kind, a mix of shades thought gone from the Seven Kingdoms, and in that regard, the song had done her justice.

"I should go and collect her then," said Lady Genna. "I wouldn't want another fool to lose their good bits for taking liberties where they ought not."

"And she isn't _my_ girl, Lady Genna." It seemed the thousandth time he had uttered such a phrase.

"Of course she isn't, dear. I'll take care of her all the same. Now run along. Tywin is waiting." She gave him a little shove through the open doors, and when he glanced back at her, half to glare and half to gawk - he'd never met a woman quite so forceful as Lady Genna - she shooed him onward with waving hands.

"_Go_," she said, grinning. "And don't mind the old lion's roar. You're taking on his name to lead his house to greater glory in the distant years to come. He owes you a debt of sorts, sweetling, and - "

"A Lannister always pays his debts," they finished in unison. He had heard the adage often enough.

"But is he really in my debt?"

"Mayhaps debt is too strong a word," she allowed. "But you've given him an _heir_, darling. And in turn, he will give you the West. Which is more valuable? The land, or the legacy?"

From what Ser Kevan had told him, he would imagine legacy the more important of the two.

She saw the understanding dawn on his face, and smiled so brightly Harry felt his own spirits lifted.

"I thank you, Lady Genna," he told her, voice laced with sincerity.

"As you should," she returned, still grinning. "And please dear, call me Aunt Genna. I know I'm a lady; I needn't be reminded of it _all_ the time."

She disappeared into the hallway, and he turned away to head into Lord Tywin's tower, lips parted in a half smile. Tyrion had been right. He _did_ like Lady Genna. _'Aunt Genna,'_ he reminded himself.

He walked the length of the bridge alone, with only the clouds above for company. The clouds, and his thoughts. He would be lying if he said he wasn't apprehensive about his meeting with Lord Tywin. It had been several years since he last saw his grandfather, and it was clear the Lannister lord had been keeping a close watch on him, through a multitude of eyes. What would Tywin think of his exploits? Of his decisions?

What would he think of Aeryn?

He entered the tower and came upon a vaulted antechamber guarded by a pair of burly men in red mail. One of them, without prompting, left his post to open the doors to the office, and Harry stepped inside.

_'Well,'_ he thought as he looked around the chamber. _'For all his ruthless ways, Lord Tywin certainly has taste. Expensive taste. I could fund an army with the things in here.'_

The room was grand and golden, with a soft, thick carpet of red velvet stuffed with wool laying against the sleek stone floor. Gaudy, golden greatswords some two hands wide and twice as long as he was tall hung about the walls. Suits of gold armor stood against an aisle of marble pillars painted with golden flakes, each suit etched with lion heads upon breastplate and pauldrons. He saw suits of silver too, and all sorts of bejeweled blades set in velvet casing atop the tables spaced around the room.

Some of the tables were decorated with marble statuettes; there were busts of armored knights on horseback, men wrestling with lions, and the grim faces of ancient lords and kings. The windows above the tables were stained a faint yellow, like pale topaz, intricate patterns of diamonds and seven-pointed stars decorating the glass sheets.

Two round tables covered in neat stacks of parchment sat beneath a pair of chandeliers set with thick red candles. Stuffed lion heads hung high on the walls, the tapestries beneath them decorated with the likenesses of past lords of the Rock. Shelves and cabinets of redwood dusted with gold sat between the tables around the walls, lined with all manner of leather-bound tomes.

Lord Tywin sat at a table at the end of the center aisle, between the columns furthest from the door. He was a powerfully built man, broad of shoulder, with thin, graying hair swept to the back of his head, and a visage that seemed carved of stone. His green eyes were flecked with gold, the lines of his face straight and angled, indicating a man who rarely, if ever, saw fit to smile.

The table was carved of tan marble, and sat atop foundations of rampant lions, two high backed wooden chairs padded with polished leather placed before it. All manner of ink pots and quills were strewn across the table top, along with half-rolled sheets of parchment, and bowls of solidified wax. A large golden gourd sat to one end of the table on a saucer laden with two gold cups, next to a silver tray of buttered rolls. The rolls were still steaming.

"Grandfather," Harry greeted, bowing to the lord.

He tried to smile, tried to capture the light spirit of his conversation with Lady Genna, but in the face of Lord Tywin's severe expression all he could manage was a slight twitch of his lips. He hadn't seen his grandfather in several years, but the man looked much the same as he had when Harry was younger, save his hair, now more gray streaked with blond than blond streaked with gray.

"Prince Harry," Lord Tywin returned. His voice was deep and rich, like the low rumble of a bossed bronze gong. "Or should I call you the Black Prince now? Sit," he said, when Harry remained standing, nodding to one of the seats. The old lion poured two cups of water, setting one before Harry.

"Harry is fine, grandfather," he said as he sat. He was wary. He couldn't get a read on Tywin. There was naught but calm behind his pale green eyes, like the eye of a storm.

"You brought a girl with you."

_'He certainly didn't waste any time.'_ "I did."

Lord Tywin scoffed. "Not yet a man grown and already falling in with whores. You've been too long around Tyrion. That will come to an end."

Harry had no doubt of that. He didn't think Tyrion meant to stay at Casterly Rock for long; he had come only at Harry's behest. "Aeryn is not a whore," he said, frowning. "She's - "

"A stain," Tywin cut in, nose flaring as he spoke. "And if a stain cannot be cleansed, it must be kept hidden. But, because of your deeds, that option is no longer available. Not since singers across the lands deigned you worthy of immortalization in song." His face was severe, but there was something like approval shining through his eyes. "Your stain must then become something else. You will not bring shame upon this house. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry nodded. "Very clear." _'Become something else like what?'_ he wondered.

"This _girl_ will remain out of my sight."

"Her name is Aeryn," he said. "You can say her name, grandfather." He did not shy away from Lord Tywin's sharp gaze.

The old lion's lips grew so thin they seemed to disappear. "Hn," he grunted. "So I can." He leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, elbows resting on the table. "You have arranged for_ Aeryn_ to serve as Lady Genna's handmaiden."

"I have," Harry said with a nod.

"A prince has no need of handmaidens. There will be no gallivanting through the city. No traipsing through the castle halls. If I see you with her, I'll have her hanged."

Harry's face hardened, teeth clenched so tight his jaws burned. "No, you will not."

And then he saw that terrible hint of a smile that Tyrion had warned him of, a slight tightening in Tywin's jaw, almost like a nervous tic. "There it is," he said. "You've your father's hot blood. Will you do to me as you did to those Gold Cloaks, hmm? Mutilate me and parade me through the city?"

Harry kept his silence, teeth grinding. It was almost frightening, how protective he was of Aeryn, the sheer strength of his reactions to her being threatened.

"A prince has no need of handmaidens," Tywin said again. He stood in one smooth movement, walked over to a pedestal atop one of the tables, and lay his hand across the solemn faced statuette sitting upon it. "If you mean to be seen with her, if she means to remain _here, _in **this** castle, then she _will_ attain the necessary skills to be of use to a prince. Elsewise, she will be hanged." He grew silent as the statuette trembled, looking about the room as if confused.

Harry felt sweat trickle down his forehead. _'Calm down, Harry.'_ He took deep, measured breaths until his anger cooled. "If that be your will," he forced out. _'He won't hang her.'_ He would leave before that happened.

Or people would die. And that too, his willingness to kill to keep Aeryn safe, was fearsome to consider. He felt responsible for her. He _was_ responsible for her.

_'Mayhaps she is mine, in a way.'_

Tywin grabbed a rolled parchment from the table and turned to stare at him, one eyebrow arched. He seemed to have expected more resistance. "You don't like me, do you boy?"

"No, I don't," he admitted. He couldn't deny that truth. Lord Tywin was too extreme. Too ruthless. But he had saved lives, no matter how gruesomely he tended to end them.

"You needn't like me," Tywin said. "But you will respect me."

"I do." Respected that he was just as much a monster as Gregor Clegane. But where Gregor was crude stone, Tywin was solid quartz, polished in such a way as to disguise its sharp, jagged edges.

But even quartz yielded to fire, if it burned hot enough.

"You're not half as impertinent as I've been led to believe," said Lord Tywin.

"You've not given me cause to be impertinent." _'And I've since learned to keep my tongue.'_ Almost committing patricide might have had something to do with it.

But then he remembered something, something he had almost forgotten in lieu of more recent events. He had thought little of what Elia Martell had told him that fateful day, but now that he sat before Lord Tywin, the conversation was thrust to the forefront of his mind.

_"A dog mauled me, but it was a manticore that took my daughter,"_ she had said.

"May I ask a question, my lord?" He kept his tone light.

"You may." Tywin turned back to look out the leaded window, yellow light falling across his face, fists resting on the table top.

"Which house's sigil is a manticore?" He knew a great deal of the houses sworn to the Lannister family, but he didn't know _all_ of them.

"House Lorch," Tywin replied.

"And which man of House Lorch stabbed Rhaenys Targaryen half-a-hundred times?"

The old lord tilted his head in thought, and looked over his shoulder to eye Harry as if he was some strange, foreign creature. "What does it matter?"

"Please, my lord. Indulge my curiosity." He was more than curious, and he could just as easily find out from a different source, but something goaded him to question Lord Tywin on the matter. To see exactly what the lord thought of the incident of decades past.

"You only say 'my lord' when it suits you," Tywin said as he turned about. He leaned his hips against the table and he folded his arms. "Your sudden regard for my title is transparent. Don't take half measures; either refer to me as 'my lord' every time you address me, or do not address me as such."

Harry nodded. "Alright, grandfather." There it was again, that slight twitch in his jaw. "You were about to mention a name," he ventured.

"No," Tywin said. "I don't believe I was."

Harry stared at him, willing him to speak, and Lord Tywin stared back. The seconds dragged on while silence reigned.

"Ser Amory Lorch," Tywin said at last.

"Ser Amory Lorch." Harry repeated the name slowly, committing it to memory. It tasted vile as he spoke it. _'May the Others take you.' _"Ser Kevan said you had the Targaryen children killed to save the West from war. That your intentions were honorable. Did he speak truth?"

"Honorable?" Lord Tywin scoffed and reclaimed his seat, his steps muffled by the carpet. "There is nothing honorable about murdering children. I had the Targaryen babes killed to secure the future of the Lannister name. To ensure that we would not become a footnote in the annals of history." The Lannister lord regarded him with ageless eyes.

_'What atrocities have those eyes witnessed?'_

"You will rid yourself of these childish notions," Tywin started again. "Honor is for men who can afford to be fools. For men who can afford to believe in illusions. A boy in your position cannot afford to be a fool. Not any longer. You think less of me because I ordered the deaths of children? You think me dishonorable?"

"I do." There was no use lying.

"Of course you do. You've been raised on whimsical tales and chivalrous songs. I would expect no less from a boy of nine. But you will come to learn the truth of the world, in time."

"And what is the truth, grandfather?" _'What terrible ideal do you believe in?'_

Tywin gave Harry a look so sharp and piercing he felt as if the lord was reading _his_ mind. "Honor doesn't exist," he said. "It is an idea invented by men to help them sleep at night. Family is all that matters. Family is all you have. _Anything_ is admissible, in the defense of it, or the advancement of it."

_'Without honor,'_ Harry thought, _'men are but animals.'_ "You must sleep terribly then."

Tywin glared at him, the gold specks in his eyes darkening to amber. "You will save your cheek. My sons are clever enough, I don't need more of the same from you." He shuffled through the rolls of parchment on his desk, grabbing a quill from the tabletop. "You will come here, to this room, on the first, third and fifth day of every week, precisely after supper, until I say otherwise. On the sixth day of every week, you will accompany me to survey the men as they drill. You will attend to your studies and your lessons in arms just as dutifully as you have in the past, and if what I've been told rings true, I will name you my heir." Then he set to reading the documents, and the minutes ticked past, the only sound in the room the ceaseless scratch of quill to parchment.

Lord Tywin was just as Harry had imagined. _'Great, but terrible.'_ Only one question remained.

"Would you have done it?" _'Just how cruel are you?'_

"Would I have done what?" There was the barest hint of impatience in Tywin's voice.

"Would you have stabbed Princess Rhaenys half-a-hundred times?"

"No," he said, sparing Harry a glance. "Once would've been enough."

* * *

When Harry finally departed from Lord Tywin's company, two women were awaiting him in the antechamber. He glimpsed them as he was slipping through the open doorway, pausing in mid-step when he saw them. One fiddled with a guard's halberd, and thumped at the other's breastplate, while the second stood off to the side, watching the spectacle with a long-suffering grin. _'These are the two women from the gardens,' _he thought. Neither seemed to notice him.

"They're as still as statues," the one mucking about with the guards said. "Isn't it strange that they never move? Lord Tywin trains his dogs well."

"Don't call them _dogs_, Myrielle. They're the soldiers who protect us; they deserve your respect."

"Protect _us_?" She scoffed. "I've not seen these two protect anything but a pair of doors."

_'So the other must be Cerenna,' _Harry thought. He pushed the door open further and it let out a loud creak. They both turned around at the sound, almost startled, but their wide eyes soon narrowed in curiosity.

Both were comely, with pale green eyes, and long, curly, flaxen hair braided about their heads in intricate buns beset with rose petals. Each was clothed in crimson brocade patterned with elegant golden swirls, long, billowing skirts trailing behind them. Cerenna was two hands taller than Myrielle, with a heart shaped face, big, almond shaped eyes, and full lips. She was long limbed, graceful as a dandelion twirling in the wind, willowy as a tree. Something in her visage reminded him of his mother; her cheeks, mayhaps? Myrielle's face was rounder, her eyes more heavily-lidded, her cheekbones more prominent, but her features were otherwise dainty. She shared her brother's pug nose.

"Prince Harry," Cerenna greeted with a curtsy, lips parted in a slight smile. "Cerenna Lannister, at your service."

Myrielle only stared at him, regarding him as some curious, foreign _thing. _Cerenna nudged her sister with an elbow, glaring at her.

"I'm Myrielle." She stalked towards him, not bothering to curtsy. "You're plenty tall for a boy of nine," she said, leaning closer to his face.

He reared back as she leaned forward, annoyance worming its way onto his features. He noticed a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

"A bit girly looking though," she continued.

"_Myrielle!" _Cerenna exclaimed with a stomp of her foot.

Myrielle reached up and wound her fingers around the wavy locks framing his face. "But I like your hair. Everyone around here is blond. It gets boring, looking at yellow hair all the time."

"I'm sure it does," Harry said, untangling her fingers from his hair. He dropped her hand to fall to her side. Perhaps at another time he might have been more social, more jovial, but after the talk with his grandfather, his mood had soured. Lord Tywin was a miserable old cunt.

"Lady Genna bid us to show you to your quarters," Cerenna said.

"Lady Genna bid us collect a few _servants_ to show him to his quarters," muttered Myrielle. "This was _your_ idea."

Cerenna almost glared at her sister. "And _you_ didn't want to meet the Black Prince? How often do our cousins from King's Landing come to Casterly Rock? How often do _princes_ come to Casterly Rock?"

"Well he's not much of a prince yet, is he?" She seemed to have forgotten he was standing right beside her. "He's only nine! And he'll be here for a while yet. There would have been time enough to meet him in the days to come."

"I would say he's quite the prince," Cerenna returned, eyeing him. "That he's young only makes him that much more impressive. And _I_ didn't care to wait for the 'days to come'." She turned her attention back to her sister. "I wanted to meet him now. If _you_ didn't, you could've remained in the gardens."

Myrielle opened her mouth to make a rebuttal, but Harry cut in before she could.

"Mayhaps, since you both are already here, you could just show me to my chambers?" He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but he wasn't sure he had succeeded.

Cerenna appeared apologetic. "Of course, my prince." She looked askance at her sister, then promptly turned about to lead him across the bridge and back into the castle.

"Lords and knights across the West vie for her hand, and here she is, obsessing over a bloody boy," he heard Myrielle mutter. "She'll be married off long before he's of age."

_'Seven hells.'_ He hadn't considered the possibility that he would have to fend off advances from his cousins as well. He looked back at Myrielle, face set in a frown. _'Well, one cousin, at least.' _Cerenna was five years his senior, though; he couldn't imagine her _seriously _maintaining an interest in him, prince or no.

Thinking of the sisters made him think of his own sister, little Myrcella, back in King's Landing. He wondered how she was doing - if she was happy, alone in the capital. If she was safe. Joffrey was a fool, but he didn't think him fool enough to harm Myrcella. Then again, fools were not known for learning from past mistakes.

"Cerenna, could you have your maester prepare a raven for King's Landing? My own maester did not learn ravenry." _'But I think it might be good for him to learn now.'_

"You'll be sending a letter to the king?"

"No," he said. "The queen." He would make sure to remind her that Joffrey was an obnoxious turd and he would beat his brother black and blue if he found out he had so much as _pushed_ Myrcella too roughly. He would ride back to King's Landing by his lonesome, if need be.

Of course, he wouldn't phrase it in such a way in the letter. Not to his mother.

He followed Cerenna back to the hall of chandeliers he had passed through with Lady Genna, then down a side passage to a dark, narrow walkway wedged between an oriel window set with crimson glass overlooking a quintain, and an expanse of smooth stone covered in portraits. Myrielle followed in his wake, humming an oddly familiar tune, tapping her feet in rhythm as they descended the winding set of stairs at the end of the passage, into the bowels of the castle. The hall that lay at the bottom of the stairs, unlike all the others he had seen, was lit with torches. There were no windows along the walls; there was no need of them beneath the ground, as sunlight couldn't penetrate solid stone.

Servants scuttled about in the fire light, with trays and brooms and washcloths, nodding deferentially as the trio passed. Some of them stared at him, and one scrawny lad brandishing a mop tripped on its dangling strings, nearly falling into a matron with an armful of silver cutlery.

Cerenna laughed at the sight, a peal like chiming crystals, even as she helped the boy right himself.

"The kitchens are down here," she said as they resumed walking. "The dungeons are down even lower. See that alcove at the end of the hall there?" She pointed to the aforementioned space, even as they drew nearer to it.

"I see it." It was curtained, but aside from that, looked much the same as the others.

"There is a stairway tucked behind the curtain. It leads down into the caverns beneath the castle. There are hundreds of them." She glanced back at him. "It's easy to get lost, so if ever you feel the desire to explore the caves, come find me. Your other cousins will _say_ they know the way around, but they don't, really. Lancel got lost just two weeks ago."

"We tracked him by the sound of his crying," said Myrielle. "He was sitting in a corner, begging the gods to bring his father to rescue him."

"Lancel is Ser Kevan's son, right?" asked Harry. He spoke primarily to Cerenna. She was easily the more well-mannered of the two, and the least annoying by far.

"Right," Cerenna said. "Lancel is his oldest. Then there are the twins, Willem and Martyn."

"Lancel's leaving for King's Landing soon. Tyrek too," Myrielle said.

_'Why?' _he wondered.

Cerenna recognized the look on his face. "To squire for your father," she said, answering his silent question.

_'One prince for two squires. What a bargain.' _He could almost pity the two boys. They would learn more of ale and wine than they would of knighthood.

The trio came upon the end of the hall, passing the curtained alcove to stand in a pathway that split in two. One leg fell to the left, to the north side of the castle. Harry saw a guard patrolling the hall, stiff and rigid as he marched back and forth. The other leg, to their right, was a wide, straight path, the walls decorated with criss-crossing pikes set upon crimson shields, their tips dipped in gold.

"Your chambers are in the northern tower," Cerenna explained as she turned down the path to the left.

"All the way on the other _bloody_ side of the castle," said Myrielle.

Cerenna sighed. "Don't mind my younger sister's mouth, my prince." She turned and glared at her sister. "She takes after our brother, in that regard. And it's really not _that_ far."

Harry shook his head. "It's fine," he said. Myrielle's temperament, the distance - none of it mattered, not really. He had far more important things on his mind. Too many things. Aeryn, his sister, his knights, even Jerryd. Had he reached Cape Wrath yet? "And call me Harry. Like you said, we're cousins." But he still had a mind to entertain proper courtesy.

They came upon another stairway, angling upwards to the second level of the castle, to a set of unmanned doors of oak banded with bronze. The doors opened to a covered bridge that passed over the castle armory, alongside a stone chute funneling the heat from the forge to the sky above. The bridge branched out into yet another tower, this one with a square foundation, and, he saw as he looked down to the ground below, at the tortuous walkway leading to the entrance at its base, a moat of its own.

"This is Lady Genna's tower," Cerenna said, looking back at him. "I saw your friend when I came through earlier. Aeryn, I think her name was? She's quite pretty - her hair, especially. I've never seen it that color before. Or colors, rather."

"Nor have I," replied Harry.

"Who cares how pretty she is?" Myrielle said, grasping at the thin columns supporting the covering, swinging herself forward at each juncture. "Quenten said you gelded a Gold Cloak for raping her, and you cut off the hands of the man who held her down. He said you even saw her raped with your own eyes. Did he speak the truth?"

Harry's eyes darkened, and the line of his lips flattened. He had been expecting the question from _someone_, but it didn't make the memories any less angering to consider. He nodded sharply. "He did."

Quenten, if he remembered correctly, was Ser Lyonel's squire. He had no doubt heard the truth of the matter from Ser Kevan, if not one of the guardsmen. He and Harry had done little speaking themselves; the heir to the Banefort was as morbid and grim as the black robed figure of his House's sigil.

"I wish I could have seen it," Myrielle said wistfully. "Sounds more exciting than a beheading, anyway. Or a flogging. Those are dreadfully boring."

Harry blinked in disbelief. Certainly she didn't just say what he thought she had? He must have heard wrong. He _hoped _he had heard wrong.

Cerenna looked back into his face and noticed straight away that something was amiss. "What my sister means to say is," she rushed to explain, "she wished to have seen those men brought to justice. Isn't that right, _Myrielle_?" Her glare was so sharp it could have cut stone.

"Well, yes," Myrielle said, somewhat confused. "Isn't that what I said?" She turned to Harry. "You should've hung them too."

"_Hanged_," Cerenna corrected with a long-suffering tone. "He should've _hanged_ them." She pushed through the doors at the end of a bridge to a gently curving hall that descended all the way to the ground level of the tower.

The braziers curling around the wall were encased in glass, unlike any he had seen before, and the thick candles set in the brackets between the windows were surrounded by quartz.

Harry rubbed wearily at his eyes as he walked, looking much older than a boy of nine. These two were simply too much, too soon. "I need to speak with Ser Barristan," he said. He had need to discuss burgeoning ideas, and he didn't know how long Ser Barristan intended to remain at Casterly Rock. He could very well broach the matter on the morrow, but it seemed more prudent to speak with him now. He had little else to do before sundown.

"If I'm not mistaken," Cerenna began, "he's been granted lodgings in your tower, along with the other knights of your retinue. I'll take you to him."

"You have my thanks." And he meant it. She had been helpful.

_'Wait a minute...'_

"_My_ tower?"

* * *

Cerenna and Myrielle left him at the training yard in between the north tower - _his_ tower - and a barracks. The tower sprouted up from the earth like a pike planted in the ground, with great shuttered windows running up and down its length, a turret branching out from its top, and a covered walkway twisting through rows of fountains and columns leading to its entrance, the wide doors made of thick, wooden planks banded with iron and bronze. He saw Gerard guarding the door with his hammer hanging over his broad shoulders. The guardsman nodded to Harry as he passed, but otherwise stared resolutely ahead, giving the hammer a squeeze every so often.

At the Red Keep, the fence surrounding the training yard had been as high as his chest, and built of oak, but this yard was framed by redwood posts that were two hands taller, enclosing a patch of dirt large enough for a score of men to tussle within the boundary. Quinn, his platinum blond hair hanging loose, fended against three of the freeriders who had attached themselves to his retinue. They were thin, rangy lads, with not a decent sword between the lot of them, from what he could see.

Beyond the training yard stood the northern barracks, a square structure carved from the stone of the mountain, with a turret at one corner, and walkways along the roof for bowmen to prowl. It was only half as tall as the tower, but it was far stouter, and topped with a red spire as well.

Most all his men were at the yard, circling the ring. He had heard them before he saw them, heard their jeering, along with the dull metallic clang of blunted steel. Cassius stood with Ham and Terryck on the far side of the ring, their faces red with mirth, ruddy from drinking. He saw neither Falk, nor Rowan, nor Frederick, but glimpsed Gavin walking around the enclosure, twirling his sword in his hand, and Alard standing with a small group of freeriders, demonstrating a vicious move with a wood-axe. Ser Wenfryd stood far across the yard with a small group of men, bow in hand, before a row of targets. He saw Ser Barristan leaning against the fence, watching the assembled men, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Ser Brenden stood with him. They appeared to be in discussion.

"Ser Barristan," Harry greeted as he approached. "Ser Brenden." He nodded to each of the knights as they turned to face him.

"My prince," Ser Barristan said with a dip of his head. "Come to watch your guards trounce these farmboys?"

Harry looked beyond him and saw Quinn wrestle a lad to the ground with a quick move, then strike another across the chest with a hammer blow.

"I came to speak to you, actually. But I have to ask... why _are_ they fighting?" He would have thought the men more preferable to rest and relaxation, ensconced away in their lodgings, after their trip.

"It was my idea," Ser Brenden said. "I wanted to test them."

"They don't seem to be doing well in this test of yours." Not well at all; one boy seemed reluctant even to stand, after the blow he had received. "Quinn's traveled all across Essos; no doubt his sword hand is quite experienced. Wouldn't it have been better to pit the freeriders against one another?"

"Perhaps," Ser Barristan allowed. "But this is a necessary practice, my prince, to cull the weak-willed from the strong-hearted."

"And it is quicker as well," said Ser Brenden, "but if you object, I can have them stop."

Harry surveyed the men in the yard once more. One had already given up, but the other two continued to struggle, taking hit after hit. They were in pain - that much was clear from the grimaces on their faces - but they did not quit.

"No," he said. "Let them continue." He turned to Ser Barristan. "That's actually why I wanted to speak with you. I don't know how long you mean to remain here, but I would have your help in turning this bunch," and he waved his hand at the assembled men, "into a force to be proud of. Like the Kingsguard of old."

Ser Barristan smiled down at him, the lines of his craggy faces curling up to his eyes. "A noble cause," he said. "But I can't help but wonder... what would be the purpose of this force?"

How to put it in words? "To fight," he said simply. "To fight against injustice, to fight for honor - "

"To fight a war?" Ser Barristan cut in.

"Mayhaps," Harry allowed, looking up into the sky. The sun had already begun its descent, falling leisurely into the Sunset Sea. "My father's peace won't last forever. Men are too ambitious, too greedy... too flawed. You know this for yourself," he said, looking to Ser Barristan. "I don't know how it will come about. I don't know why it will come about, but I know there will be war. I can feel it in my bones."

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. There would be another war - a war unlike any before it. He could think of no other reason for his certain _skills_.

"Feel it in his bones, he says." Ser Barristan seemed almost exasperated. "What did I tell you of worrying about the future?"

"I'm not _worrying,_ Ser Barristan, I'm preparing. There's a difference. I would rather have men and not need them than need men and not have them." What had happened, he wondered, to the boy who liked to play jokes on Gold Cloaks and sneak about the castle at night?

"A boy of nine preparing for war," the old ser said, shaking his head. He seemed to have similar thoughts. "And where will your father be when this war breaks out? Or Lord Tywin?"

"They might very well be dead." Dead from age or dead from a sword; either was applicable, in a land like Westeros. His father already wasn't in the best of health.

Ser Barristan looked at him as if seeing a ghost. "You're growing up too fast. You're too serious, too grim." He turned his gaze to the sun, squinting against its dimming light. "Prince Rhaegar was like that. As dour as a storm in the dark of night, even as a young lad. And you," he said with a shake of his head, "are far younger than he was." He seemed to be lamenting the fact.

It was good that his father wasn't around - the king hated even the merest mention of the fallen prince. To Harry though, Rhaegar Targaryen was an enigma; he had heard him both vilified and celebrated. Maegor had spoken of him once, had called him a true king, and his mother, in the days leading up to his departure from King's Landing, had mentioned that in her youth it had been her desire to be married to him, but he had never heard Ser Barristan speak of the fallen prince.

"You knew Rhaegar well," Harry said, watching the spectacle in the ring.

The two boys still fought, working together now to try and fell Quinn. The guardsman was on the defensive, weaving between their blades like a fish in water.

"I knew him as well as I know you," Ser Barristan said. "Better even - he had time to grow into a man; you, for all your serious ways, are still yet a boy."

"...was he a good man?" _'Do you believe he truly kidnapped Lyanna Stark?'_

"One of the best. He would've been a great king. A true king. But he fell prey to what all men fall prey to." His tone was regretful, his blue eyes clouded by memories.

"And what is that?" Greed? Lust? Jealousy?

"His heart," the knight said. "He fell prey to love. Prince Rhaegar loved Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. A kingdom _fell_ for it."

Love. It was certainly a worthy cause to fight for. Love was a great power; he had seen that proven, in the life before. But the fallen dragon prince had been foolish, had been _selfish_, he and Lady Lyanna, and it was for that reason that thousands had died. Not love. But he didn't say that to Ser Barristan. "The kingdom still stands, good ser. Only the tyrant at its head fell. And now my father sits in his place. Rhaegar fought for love. I fight for justice. My men will fight for justice. For truth, and for honor. Will you help me?"

Ser Barristan stood still and silent for several moments, then nodded sharply. "I will. But you must make me a promise, since you did not heed my counsel."

"What?"

"_Stop worrying_. You'll have time enough to worry when you're older." He almost made to ruffle his hair, but thought better of it as Harry's eyes narrowed. The old knight laughed at that, a short, dry chuckle that shone in his eyes.

"I can't help it," Harry said, folding his arms across his chest. "And I'm not worried, not anymore. I've the greatest knight in the history of the Seven Kingdoms to help me now."

"Rhaegar too worried for the future," Ser Barristan continued, ignoring Harry's words. "Worried for a future he didn't live to see."

_'He worried for the wrong things, then.' _"I sense a warning in there, somewhere."

"Aye, and I should think you clever enough to find it."

Harry's lips curled up in a half smile, and he turned his attention to Ser Brenden. The young knight had been standing silently throughout the entire conversation, eyes never once wavering from the men in the ring.

"Could you tell Ser Andar and Ser Derwyck that I will speak with them after my lessons tomorrow?" he asked the guardsman. Harry was willing to accept their service, now that he had Ser Barristan's patronage.

"Of course, my prince," Ser Brenden replied with a nod.

"And have yourself some armor made." _'It shouldn't cost much,'_ he thought. Five or six dragons, mayhaps, give or take a few hundred silvers.

The young knight appeared surprised, and opened his mouth to speak.

"You're to be my personal shield," Harry continued before Brenden could utter a word, "and captain of my guard; I think you should look the part."

Ser Brenden seemed deeply moved by the gesture. "It is an honor," he said.

"Something black, I suppose. And mayhaps a cape?" He looked the knight up and down. "What do you think, Ser Barristan? Is a cape too much?"

"I wear a cape," the old knight replied. "And I've worn it for nearly forty years. I'm partial to them, myself. They can be a detriment in battle, however, if you be fool enough to let a man get behind you."

Harry considered his words. "I'll leave the decision up to you," he said to Ser Brenden. "Ser Wenfryd should probably have a set of armor made as well... something befitting a royal archer. And mayhaps some for Ser Lyle, if he agrees to stay on. Then again, he could probably afford his own; the Crakehalls are wealthy enough."

"Did Ser Wenfryd tell you that?" asked Ser Brenden.

"He did," Harry returned. "He knows a lot about the Westerlands... as expected, I suppose."

Wenfryd had already sent word of his intentions to his liege lord, his older brother, Lord Manfryd. The lord of House Yew had cared little of his brother's aspirations. He had said only for him to make certain to wed a proper highborn girl to see more prestige brought to his house.

"Ser Lyle means to depart for Crakehall in the morning, my prince," Ser Brenden told him. "But he said he would return after speaking with his father."

"That's five knights," Ser Barristan said. "Two more and you'll have a set to match the Kingsguard. You planning to usurp your father?"

"No," Harry said. "Not my father." _'Vile as some of the things he's done, he has kept the lands in peace for near two decades. And wouldn't that be a laugh? Usurping the usurper.'_

The old knight leveled him with a heavy look, his brows straight, blue-eyes narrowed in speculation. Harry could nearly see the thoughts swimming around in his head. _'He thinks I mean Joffrey.' _He shook his head at Ser Barristan, waving off his concerns. _'Though there's no denying it - Joffrey will make a terrible king.'_ "I was thinking of having twelve knights, actually," he said

"Why twelve?" Ser Brenden asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and completely ignorant of the by-play between Harry and the Lord Commander.

"Because twelve is more magical a number than seven," Harry replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He noticed Ser Brenden tense up at the mention of magic, but it happened so fast he could almost think he had imagined it. "It's the number of completion," he continued, watching the young knight. _'He suspects something.' _He would have been a fool not to.

Ser Barristan's face changed at that, the lines of his face softening, and he let loose a short chuckle. "That maester of yours has been letting you read books by that mage character, hasn't he?" He looked out into the ring, and Harry followed his gaze to see another two lads struggling against Quinn.

Both stumbled about, limping, trying in vain to keep out of reach of Quinn's blade. The guardsman fought more carefully now, almost gingerly, tired and injured himself.

"_Archmaester_ Marwyn didn't mention the magical qualities of numerical symbols in his books," Harry began. "He mentions ghosts, prophecies, runic script, and the strange practices of far eastern culture, but nothing of magical numbers. I developed those theories all on my own." _'Or dreamed them, rather.' _He grinned cheekily.

Harry had a burning desire to meet the archmaester. Even if the man couldn't manage the tiniest bit of magic, a meeting would be worth it - according to Wulfric, Marwyn had studied magic extensively, so much so that he was called 'the mage'. Wulfric had mentioned him one afternoon as they rode along the Gold Road, making tale of an encounter he'd had with the archmaester in the streets of Oldtown, years before, in the months leading up to his departure to King's Landing. Maester Wulfric didn't think much of him as a person, had called him 'uncouth and base-minded', but he couldn't deny the archmaester's knowledge.

Harry wondered what his maester would think if he showed _him_ a bit of magic.

"The Wall is protected by runes, you know," he said. "It's said that Storm's End is protected by runes as well."

"Is that right?" Ser Barristan said. "It's also said that King Durran's wife was the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of wind."

"And Lord Jon told me of a lord from the Eyrie," Harry continued ignoring the old knight, "Lord Yohn of House Royce. He wears a set of bronze armor with runes etched into it. There must be some sort of magic to them - why else would a man wear armor made of bronze?"

"I know of Lord Yohn, and his strange armor," Ser Brenden said. "And I can think of no reason a man would willingly wear bronze plate. It's too soft a metal, compared to good steel." He patted his sword.

"Twelve seems like quite a large number," Ser Barristan said. He didn't seem much obliged to speculate on the qualities of Lord Yohn's armor, nor the existence of magic. "Knights are expensive, my prince. Have you spent so little of your monthly stipends that you can afford to fund twelve knights, indefinitely?"

"I'm the heir of Casterly Rock now," Harry replied. "I can afford them. The freeriders too." He looked back to the ring. One of the boys still fought, his face a mess of bruises, his cudgel held loosely with limp fingers. He was dead on his feet, and still he fought. "If they prove worthy."

* * *

His quarters were on the uppermost level of the tower, in the middle of a long, sparsely decorated hall, behind a door of black oak. The room was vast, almost as large as the King's chambers at the Red Keep, but more austere in its decor. A grand window sat in the far wall, overlooking the training yard below, sunlight spilling through its great breadth. There were two hearths - one set in the wall to the left of the door, the mantel above it bare, a silver mirror beside it, and the other sat off in a corner of the room, beneath a massive bronze tub. A canopied bed was pressed against the wall across from the tub, a short table to the side of it, his chests laid out in a row before the bed's base. Candelabra gilded in bronze and gold set with white candles sat atop tables spaced haphazardly about the room, creating a sort of walkway leading through the furnishings. A Myrish dressing screen formed a partition in another corner, the teal glass painted with mint-green vines, standing before a bulky wardrobe of red oak.

He walked the length of the wall to a door behind a jutting section of stone, and pushed it open to find the solar.

Maester Wulfric was in the room, a cart full of books at his side. He moved about the tall shelves lining the rough stone walls, arranging books as he went, checking each carefully before he sat them down. A table stood in the center of the room with chairs at each side, and a lit brazier atop a stone slab sat in the middle of it, casting long shadows about the room. There were four round windows around the walls, set in between the bookshelves, with shutters to match. The room reminded him of his solar back in King's Landing, save it was near twice the size.

"Maester Creylen has informed me that letters have arrived for you, from King's Landing," the maester said as Harry walked in. "Quite a number of them, in fact, some as early as three weeks ago. Your mother sent one, and your sister sent seven - one for each of the gods, I believe."

_'Seven hells, Myrcella!'_ He knew she missed him, but seven was simply too many. It seemed obsessive. "Do you have them with you?" He moved to the table and absently began tapping his knuckles against the wood, inadvertently mimicking the rhythm to the song Myrielle had been humming. He still couldn't think of the name of the tune.

"I placed them in your bedside table, in the top drawer." The Maester turned to the cart and grabbed another stack of books.

"Thank you," Harry said. He moseyed about the room, running his hand along the shelves, investigating each book. Most of them were familiar. "I have a request of you."

"A request, you say? You don't often make requests." The maester finished placing his stack and turned around completely, leaning his girth back against the shelf. "Name it, and if it be in my power, I will see it so."

Harry almost smiled at the maester's formality. "I'd like to speak with Archmaester Marwyn. He seems an interesting man."

Wulfric nodded. "Aye, that he is. A bit uncouth, though. He lounges about with bastards and sellswords - "

"As do I," Harry cut in, plucking a book from the shelf. It was a thick tome, in brown leather bindings, detailing the houses of the West, and the relations between them.

Wulfric grimaced. "Right, of course. I'll send word to Oldtown. He may not come himself, but you can still correspond by raven, if need be." He slid around the cart and walked towards Harry. "You've some time yet before you must prepare for supper. Time enough, I think, for a quick lesson."

"A lesson in what?"

"History," Maester Wulfric returned, reaching over and taking the book from Harry's grasp. "We recently covered the reign of King Aegon the Fourth." He sat the book back down and pulled another from a separate row, then walked over to the table. "Now we will cover the Blackfyre Rebellion," he said, laying the book across the wood.

"I already know about the Blackfyre Rebellion," Harry said, joining him. "I read about it ages ago."

"Oh? Do you mind sharing what you read? I don't quite remember it as well as I used to." The maester took a seat, and Harry followed.

"It was Aegon the Unworthy who started it, really. He granted his bastard son, Daemon, the Targaryen sword Blackfyre, and later, as he lay dying, he legitimized all his bastard children. Daemon thought that he should be king, since he had been bequeathed the family sword, and there were rumors circulating that King Daeron was in fact a bastard himself. Still, Daemon didn't rise in rebellion until Daeron wed Daenerys Targaryen to Maron Martell. Daemon garnered support from the Reach and the Riverlands, and raised and army to take the crown." _'Rhaegar was not the only Targaryen to fight for love.' _But his father had fought for love too, hadn't he? "He failed, in the end, and his army was smashed."

"A decent enough recollection, I suppose." The maester opened the book and began to thumb through the pages. "Why was it so easy for Daemon to gather men?"

"He had the sword of kings. Steel carried by Aegon the Conqueror himself."

"And?"

"And... and it was rumored that Daeron wasn't the king's son."

"And?"

Harry kept his silence, thinking on the matter. "I don't know," he admitted, drawing a blank.

"Men follow strength," Wulfric said. "Especially men of the sword. Daemon was a great warrior - one of the greatest, in fact, and he was well liked, by men and women both. Aegon the Fourth _knighted_ him when he was two and ten. King Daeron was no warrior, more partial to books than swords, nor was he a cruel man, but his marriage to Myriah Martell brought a heavy Dornish influence to court, and the other lords and ladies did not appreciate their inclusion. They felt _slighted_ by their king, felt that mayhaps Daemon was more deserving of the Kingship."

Harry was silent as he pondered the maester's words. He wondered how people would consider Joffrey's rule. When the time came for his brother to sit on the Iron Throne, would they too clamor for him to be king, as they had for Daemon Blackfyre?

"What did Daemon do _wrong_ in the Battle of Redgrass Field?" Maester Wulfric asked him.

This was an easier question. "He didn't have scouts to the rear of his army. Prince Baelor cut off his retreat, but even then, his position had already been compromised by Bloodraven's archers. He should've retreated then, when he lost position."

"Is that what you would've done? Retreated?"

"That's exactly what I would have done," Harry said. "There's no shame in an orderly retreat. Better to retreat and regroup than fight and die."

"That it is," said Maester Wulfric. "And who knows? Had the Blackfyre Rebellion succeeded, Westeros might be a completely different place today."

* * *

The maester left shortly thereafter, retiring to his chambers to no doubt page through countless books and read the night away. With less than an hour remaining before supper, Harry set about to taking a bath.

A pair of servants filled the tub with water - he pitied them the long walk up from the first level of the tower, but the burly women hardly seemed affected by the trip. Alik came and set fire to the hearth beneath the tub, and Harry saw that the flame pit sat beneath a section of stone slabs, so as not to burn the bottom of the tub. As the sun was steadily sinking, the sky above growing darker and darker, Harry went about the room lighting candles to offset the diminishing light, and Alik lit the braziers on each side of the door.

The room was quiet. He lay in the tub, almost lost in its depths, awash in the vermillion glow of candlelight. He was but the merest second away from nodding off, his head resting comfortably against the tub's rim, when Aeryn entered his quarters, arms laden, without so much as a knock.

"Oh good," she said as she slipped into the room, "you're still bathing." She wore boys' clothes - a white tunic, and fine brown leather breeches, with soft soled boots laced up to her calves.

Harry had been facing the wall, and shifted in the tub to scowl at her. "You're supposed to knock before entering, so I can tell you not to enter. And isn't there a man outside?" He folded his arms across his chest, face twisting in confusion. "And why is it 'good' that I'm still bathing?"

"Lady Genna bid me to assist you with your hair. She doesn't think much of your own skills. And since you _are _still bathing, I figured I could wash it too."

"Of course you did." He grabbed a pair of undergarments from the stool aside the tub, hurriedly slipping them on beneath the water. "Who let you in?"

"His name's Terryck, I think. Tall, thin, short brown hair?" She walked over to him, and set the items in her arms on the stool.

Harry waded closer, and saw a jar filled with a brownish, viscous fluid, an empty flagon, several combs, and a couple of drying cloths. "Sounds like him," he mused.

"Are you angry he let me in?" she asked, picking up the jar.

"I could've been naked." he said, voice flat.

"You _were_ naked."

He thumped a bit of water at her. "You know what I mean."

"You don't have anything I haven't seen, you know." She opened the jar and a wave of cinnamon hit his nostrils. "I _was_ born in a brothel."

"And they taught you to steal, did they?" He thumped more water at her. "Those are _my_ clothes!"

"Are they?" she said, looking down at herself. "I thought they fit a bit funny."

They did. He and Aeryn were of similar height, but he was broader than she was, and the breeches hung low at her waist. He could just see the barest hint of pale flesh at the soft curve of her hip.

"Do you like her?" he asked, looking up into her eyes. "Lady Genna, I mean."

"Yes," she replied, laughing at him. "She's just as Tyrion described her." She grabbed the flagon and dipped it in the tub, filling it with water before placing it back on the stool.

At the mention of Tyrion, he thought of Tywin. His frown returned as he recalled the old lord's words - heard them as clearly as if the man was in the room, standing next to him. His thoughts had been otherwise occupied since his meeting with the old lord, but now that Aeryn was here, standing before him, he could think of little else. "Lord Tywin said he'll hang you if we're seen together," he said, looking down into the water.

"And you would allow it?" She stood behind him and poured the scented goop over his hair.

"No," he said, affronted. "I wouldn't _allow_ anything."

"So what does it matter what he says?" She worked the mixture into his hair, trailing her fingers through the strands.

He sighed, relaxing against the tub. "Because I might not be able to stop him."

He felt her shrug as she worked. "It still doesn't much matter anyway, does it?" she said. "His quarters are on the other side of the castle."

Harry had an insane idea. "I think he was being nice, putting me in this dusty old tower."

She scoffed. "I've heard a lot about Lord Tywin in the past month. He doesn't seem to be the 'nice' type."

"And yet -" he gestured around the room, "here we are."

"Yes," she said. "Here we are." She poured the flagon over his head, filled it, and emptied it once more. "What happens now?"

"We keep living," he said. "And I find something for you to do that's useful. Besides washing my hair. What is that stuff anyway?"

"Something Lady Genna gave me. It's from Pentos. Some sort of scented cleanser." She toweled off his hair with a thick strip of cloth. "I could assist Maester Wulfric. Become a healer or something of the sort. Stupid boys like you get hurt often."

Harry cupped his hands together, collecting a bit of water, and tossed it over his shoulder. Aeryn ducked away with a laugh, yanking at his hair in retaliation.

"Do you really want to learn from Maester Wulfric?" he asked, looking back at her.

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because stupid boys like you get hurt often," she repeated, moving back to finish drying his hair.

"I'm serious." He didn't think that was all of it.

"I know." She seemed to be searching for the words to say. "I'm just curious, I guess. And I want to learn. All sorts of things, actually."

"Things like what?"

She sighed. "You're bloody relentless, you know that?"

"Only when people avoid answering me," he replied.

Her returning smile was sardonic. "You gave me a dagger to better defend myself. If I learn something like... what is it called, anatmony - "

"Anatomy."

"Right," she said, grabbing a comb from the stool. "Anatomy. If I could learn anatomy, then I'd know exactly where to put the dagger if I wanted to kill a man, or if I wanted to make him suffer." She set about combing his hair. "I could apply the knowledge to poisons and potions. Poultices too. Make them more efficient. More effective."

There was a sort of light shining in her eyes as she spoke. This was something more than a spur of the moment idea. "I'll ask him then. I doubt he would say no."

"Of course he wouldn't say no. You're his prince, and he likes you. You're a studious little shite. I've never seen people read so many books as you and Tyrion and Maester Wulfric."

"I didn't think you'd seen anyone read, _ever_."

She swatted him aside the head. "_I _read. Sometimes, anyway."

"Oh? And what sort of books do you read?"

"Just get dressed," she said. "I'm not finished with your hair," she glanced out the window and noticed how dark the sky had become, "and it's almost sundown."

He dried and dressed himself behind the screen, donning a skirted doublet and black breeches, with a red sash about his waist. Aeryn had laughed at him as he walked to it.

"Isn't that a woman's dressing screen?"

Harry ignored her.

"We've slept in the same bed, you know," she continued, louder. "Some mornings I even thought you might've slipped your dagger beneath the covers - "

"Well just shout it out for the whole tower to hear, why don't you?!" Harry exclaimed as he popped out from behind the screen, cheeks reddening.

"Nobody heard me."

"They might have," he returned. "You can't say things like that... as least not so loudly. You'll have to mind your tongue here."

Aeryn guided him to the seat before the mirror and went about braiding his hair. "I'll be quieter next time," she said. "Really," she added, when he glowered at her.

"If Lord Tywin had heard you - "

"No one is around but your guard, and he's standing outside that thick door. He's loyal to you, isn't he?"

Harry nodded.

"Then stop worrying. We can speak freely here, at least, can't we?"

"_Only _here," he said. "In this room."

"Alright." She took her time with his hair, weaving the bangs to meet at the crown of his head, combing the rest of his hair backwards, away from his face. "This still doesn't quite feel real, sometimes. Almost like I'm dreaming." Her fingers worked deftly, quick and gentle.

"Maybe you are dreaming, and I'm just a figment of your imagination."

"You'd be older if this were my imagination," she said. She tilted his head this way and that. "There. All done."

He finally looked into the mirror. His hair seemed fine enough, but he looked closer and realized, with dawning horror, that she had woven golden flakes into the braids. He could almost imagine it a crown. It was _appalling. _

"Why you - "

He made to attack her, but she slipped away, shouting as she ran around the room, weaving between the tables and chairs. He went to jump over a chair she had pushed into his path, but he misjudged the distance and his foot caught on the wood. He fell to the ground with a solid thud, groaning as he rolled over onto his back. Before he could stand, Aeryn sat on his stomach, her silver and gold hair hanging down to frame his face.

"Lady Genna told me to do it," she said, trying to pin his arms.

"I look like a girl!"

She tilted her head. "Nah, you look fine to me." As quick as a cat, she leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, then hopped to her feet as he lay there. "Now go on, or you'll be late. I'll be waiting for you when you return." She slipped from the room as he climbed up from the floor, leaving the door cracked behind her.

He licked at his lips and tasted a hint of spiced honey. _'Bloody hell.'_

* * *

**AN:** Time-skip! We'll pick up again in 298 AL. Because of my manipulations, the Game of Thrones picks up in earnest in early 299 AL, as opposed to 298 AL.


	8. Interlude - Bonds of Love

**AN: **A nice, brief interlude. Thanks for your reviews - I didn't think there would be 1000 of them so soon. I'd like to give a special shout out to yak, for his meticulous proofreading, Jarik, for his continued help, Cheddar, for being awesome, and Celestin, for his suggestions, as well as all the other people who point I things I miss.

Aeryn's POV take place in the middle of 297 AL, a month or so before Harry's 14th nameday (13 years of age). Myrcella's POV takes place a couple months before Harry's 15th nameday (14) in 298 AL. Cersei's takes place months later, before and during the tourney for Joffrey's 16th nameday (15).

**Disclaimer: **I own neither Harry Potter nor Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire.

* * *

_**Aeryn**_

It was the loud creak of the heavy oaken door that woke her.

She snapped awake at the sound, indigo eyes sharpening in the bleary darkness. The brazier atop the table had dwindled to but the merest flame, and only a single torch remained lit on the wall. The pale, alabaster glow of the moon streaming through the round windows appeared dim in comparison to the torch's red gleam, and the shadows creeping up the walls seemed to care little for the moon's light.

_'Only fire can chase away shadows.'_

She thought that mayhaps Harry had returned from his lessons with Lord Tywin, and set to straightening the solar, returning the books strewn across the table to their proper places on the shelves. Maester Wulfric had stressed that point - stressed everything, really, far stricter with her than he was with Harry. She was allowed no mishaps, and no slip-ups.

Absently, she rubbed her fingers across her bruised knuckles, swathed in white cloth wet with a poultice, and thought of her last lesson, and that _stupid fucking stick _the Maester insisted on striking her with whenever she made a mistake. He was a harsh, old, fat _cunt_, but he knew his medicine, and it was because of him she had learned so much in the last few years at Casterly Rock.

Him, and Lady Genna.

When Harry was having his own lessons with Maester Wulfric, or tussling with the squires and freeriders in the training ring beside the tower, sometimes facing two at once, she was with Lady Genna, tending her while she made court with the other ladies of the Rock; the chicken-legged Lady Dorna, quiet and demure; the endlessly grieving Lady Darlessa, always so grim and dour, and the old, sour Lady Shiera, a cantankerous old crone who fussed as often as she drew breath. Lady Cerenna would often join them, with flowers in her hair and pearls about her gowns, and where she went, her crazed sister followed. Lady Myrielle was more bloodthirsty than any lady had a right to be.

They were predators and scavengers, lions and buzzards, and she, their prize and their prey.

Oh, they would applaud her beauty, and clamor over the color of her hair - "like spun gold and gleaming silver," they would say - but so too would they speak of her lowborn status, and the life she had been borne to, their voices sweet, like honey, but their words as rotten as week old flesh. Harry had never seemed to realize what it meant to live in a brothel, what it meant to be the daughter of a whore, and she had never been of a mind to tell him; the things she had seen, had _learned - _she could only wonder what he might think of her, if he knew.

_'He probably wouldn't care.' _Harry was like that. That was one of the reasons she loved him.

She tried not to think of those times; hated to think of them, just as she had hated the men who came to lie with her mother, the lords and their knights, in fine brocade, stinking of wine and ale, with cruel, salacious eyes. They were no better than Allar Deem - they only paid with gold, instead of pain.

"They'll be your men to lie with one day," her mother once told her, holding her close, "when my beautiful flower has finally bloomed.

"Chataya will make an event of it," she had said. "Your maidenhead will be worth more gold than you can hold in your fists."

In the end, it hadn't been worth any gold at all. Just a man's life.

_'Did your fires tell you that, mother?' _

She had lost something precious that day in the Dragonpit, something she had never even really had - the power to choose, even a thing as small and trivial as who would take her maidenhead. She had been prepared for the loss of it, and hoped that she could give it to Harry when the time came, but that choice had been ripped from her hands, like a flower uprooted in a storm, tossed about on fierce winds. _'A flower not yet bloomed. That life was no life for me.'_

She had lost something precious that day, but she had gained _so much more. _

She had gained a prince, a champion of the Red God; mayhaps even R'hllor made flesh. He was fire shaped into the visage of a boy, with a heart that burned as bright and fierce as the sun. For him, she weathered their words, smiled dumbly and curtsied deeply, even while she thought of strangling them. Only Lady Genna escaped her ire; only she, the grandest lioness of them all, seemed to respect that Aeryn was more than her past, more than a girl who _would've_ been a whore. And yet, she made certain that Aeryn knew her place, knew that she would never lie with Harry as his equal, knew that she would **never** be a lady.

"You will always be the 'the Black Prince's whore'," Lady Genna had told her one wet, windy morning. It had been raining for days. "They will call you a whore to your face, and they will call you a whore behind your back. My advice, child, is to embrace your title - embrace who you are. Better a prince's beloved paramour than some old lord's wife." She had smiled, her broad face stretched wide. "Can you imagine spending your life with my husband, the miserable fool?"

_'My sons and daughters will be bastards,' _she thought, _'but their father will love them, and they will want for nothing. They'll be free to choose a life of their own.'_

Her musings were cut short by voices in the room beyond.

"_Myrielle!_ What are you doing?!"

Not Harry, then. That was a woman's voice. _'Cerenna,' _she thought. Only she could reach that pitch when screaming her sister's name.

Aeryn left the solar, taking care to walk quietly, stepping past the protruding section of the wall to look upon the sisters standing before the bed, illuminated by the same moon that had seemed so dim before. Myrielle held a white tunic up to her face, and Cerenna stood facing her - even from across the room, Aeryn could make out her disapproving frown. They wore similar gowns of fine silk and lace, the dark, flowing, fawn fabrics accentuating their graceful figures.

"Stop sniffing Harry's shirt!" Cerenna stamped her foot. "Put. It. Down."

Aeryn could've laughed, had the sight of the sisters not angered her so. This was _her_ sanctuary - her's and Harry's. They had _no_ right to be here, no right to be touching his things; their mere presence seemed an affront to all that she held dear. Was it not enough that she had to deal with them when tending Lady Genna?

_'Where is Harry?' _He'd make them leave, if she asked.

"It smells like cinnamon," Myrielle said, not at all bothered by her sister's sharp tone. She took another sniff. "And nutmeg, and vanilla, and mayhaps a bit of honey."

_'Cinnamon and nutmeg to heat the body, vanilla to stimulate sensitivity, and honey to increase desire.' _She recalled Harry's tentative touches from the night before, the way he had trailed his fingers along her side and down her hip, unaware of the fire sparking up at his touch. Every night, she made the tea for him, and every night, his hands wandered further, and her fire burned brighter. She could almost feel them now, his hands, curled around her waist, or the rigid heat of him pressed into the small of her back.

_'One day soon, I'll claim him, and he will whisper my name into the darkness, as I whisper his.'_

"Why must you be so strange?" she heard Cerenna complain.

_'Why are they_ _here?'_ When Myrielle went to sniff the tunic for a third time, Aeryn made her presence known, slamming the solar door shut behind her with a crash, like the loud boom of a battle drum.

Myrielle dropped the shirt in fright, and Cerenna near leaped out of her gown. They didn't recognize her at first, staring stupidly with wide eyes, but as she stepped closer into the light, Myrielle began to scowl, and Cerenna followed suit.

"_You," _the tall blonde spat, stalking towards her. "We've been looking for you."

"Why? Mi'lady," she added after a breath.

Cerenna she liked the least, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her insistence on her and Aeryn being 'close'. She was no more scathing than the other women, less even, in some regards. but she had made her desire for Harry plain, catering to him as if they were already wed. The few times the three of them were together, Cerenna would treat her as if they were friends, laughing and joking, all so Harry would think well of her.

But the Lannister girl didn't understand the fundamental difference between Harry and every other man in her life - where they were beings of flesh, weak and malleable, Harry was a being _trapped_ in flesh, a god of fire made human, so above and beyond any other man he might as well be the sky itself. Cerenna didn't know how to stoke his fires.

Aeryn did.

"You buy spices from that woman in the city, the woman from Essos," Cerenna said, grabbing hold of her arm.

"I do," Aeryn said with a nod, as Cerenna pulled her over to the bed. She managed to keep from frowning, but she stared pointedly at Cerenna's delicate fingers curled around the pale flesh of her arm.

"The other maids say she can see the future. Is it true?"

_'So that's what this is about.' _She thought it folly to seek knowledge of the future. Nothing, she had learned, was set in stone. Better to shape the present to influence the future. "I know many hedge wizards and woods witches who claim to see the future." They always had the best priced herbs.

"We don't care about hedge wizards and woods witches," Myrielle said. "Take us to see her."

She had no desire to go and see _that_ woman. Raylene _scared_ her. Her horrid yellow eyes saw too much, and her dusky beauty seemed but a mask, hiding the truth of the vile, evil beneath. She had the rarest herbs and spices, though, and the freshest ingredients. "I must wait for my Prince to return - "

"He's gone out riding with my brother and his knights," Myrielle said, cutting her off. "He won't be back for a few hours yet. You can polish his royal scepter then."

* * *

Raylene's shop was on the seafront, down a long lane of timber and plaster buildings, built atop a jagged stone mound tinted green with algae. It was a quaint building, small and square with a sloping redwood roof, and smoky gray leaded windows. Two men sat at a small wooden table to the right of the door, both in mismatched mail and plate, with brown skin like the color of wet sand. Neither Cerenna nor Myrielle spared them a glance, but Aeryn couldn't help but notice their eyes, clouded and bloodshot, leering at them as they entered the shop. Cloaked as they were, they wouldn't be recognized, but any man with eyes could see that they were women, young and lissome, round of hip and breast.

For that very reason, they'd brought guards; two for each of the sisters, and one for her. Before she entered the shop, she looked back to Terryck and nodded her thanks, but the long limbed, former sellsword waved her on. He often accompanied her on excursions into the city, citing it was his duty to his Prince's lady.

"I'm not his lady," she would say. _'I'm his whore.'_

He only ever laughed in return, humming the rhythm of Harry's ballad. She thought she might have heard him humming it then, but the sound came from the front of her. It was Myrielle, looking through shelves, at the jars of fish eyes and ox hearts arranged atop the rows of wood.

Inside the shop was warm, a stark contrast to the cool breeze outside, the only source of light the fire blazing in the hearth across from the doorway. The smell of spices and herbs was thick in the air, and cloves of garlic and garlands of mint hung from the rafters, but they couldn't mask the rancid scent of decay seeping through the stone. It was as if the rock had once been alive, but now lie dead, rotting from the inside out. The room was quiet, eerily so, aside from Myrielle and her humming, but if she listened closely, Aeryn could hear something skittering in the dark recesses of the building, like spiders scurrying about in wooden cages. She _hated_ spiders.

"Finally decided to try my love potions, child? They can warm even the coldest of hearts." Raylene sat at a table off to the side of the room, away from the assortment of shelves spaced haphazardly about the store, the table top strewn with all manner of pewter bowls of dark liquids and powders. She wore bright robes of yellow silk, with green and blue swaths of cloth wrapped about her neck, her arms bare. Her voice seemed two toned, high pitched like the screech of clashing steel, but deep, like the low moans of a man spilling his seed. There was a foreign lilt to her words that made her common tongue hard to understand.

"No thank you," Aeryn replied. She had no need of them.

Cerenna grabbed her arm and walked over to the table, Myrielle at her side. Closer now, she found herself staring into yellow eyes the color of piss, and lips red as blood, bronze skin smoothed over a beautiful face framed by curled hair black as jet. She pulled away from Cerenna, stepping out of arms reach - she didn't like being touched, unless it was Harry doing the touching.

Myrielle opened her mouth, but Cerenna spoke before she could utter a word.

"I hope this night finds you well, my lady."

Raylene laughed. "I'm no lady, girl. I'm a bastard, just like this pretty one here," she said, glancing at Aeryn.

The tall blond was unperturbed, and smiled graciously. "I've heard tale that you come from Essos," she said. "That you have certain... _talents."_

"What sort of 'talents'?" She leaned forward, laying her hands across the table. Her thin forearms were covered in strange, looping designs of black ink, her bejeweled fingers long and thin, the tips colored more hues than Aeryn could name.

"They say you can see the future," Myrielle cut in. "All you need is a drop of blood."

"Tiresome work, seeing the future." Raylene tilted her head, black hair falling over her shoulder. In a certain slant of light, Aeryn could imagine the strands as snakes of shadow, coiled to strike. "And it takes more than a drop."

"We have gold," Myrielle said. She peered down at the rings adorning the woman's fingers. "More than you're liable to make in your entire lifetime." Cerenna's elbow twitched towards Myrielle, but she refrained from hitting her.

"Is that right, child?" Raylene tutted. "Gold is such a fickle thing. I don't much care for it."

"Do you know who we are?" Myrielle questioned, green eyes narrowing in anger.

"Lannister girls," Raylene replied, "touched by fire." She looked to Aeryn again, her gaze heavy. "I'll give each of you one question," she said with a lazy smile. "You can keep your gold, I have no need of it. But there is something else..."

"What?" Cerenna asked. "Whatever it is, we'll get it for you."

"You can't give it to me girl. Only _she_ can," she said, nodding to Aeryn. "_Bring him here._" She spoke the Valyrian dialect of Lys, but with a strange inflection on her words, as if it too was not her native language.

"_Why_?" She ignored the looks the sisters gave her.

"_I want to see him, this prince of yours_."

"_What if he doesn't want to come_?"

Raylene wrote something down on a slip of parchment, folded it, and handed it to Aeryn. "_Give him that_. _He'll come._"

Aeryn slipped the parchment into the folds of her cloak, and nodded to the two sisters. While Cerenna and Myrielle sat at the table, she remained standing, watchful and wary.

Raylene took Cerenna's hand, and with a thin, sharp knife, cut her palm with one deft stroke. She bit her lip against the pain, but was otherwise unaffected. Blood dripped once, then twice, and a third time, into an empty pewter cup. The wise woman stared at the pooling blood, and the yellow of her eyes seemed to darken before them.

"Ask your question, child." Her voice had grown strained.

Cerenna took a breath. "Will I be the Lady of the Rock?"

_'Stupid girl. I know what you want.'_ Any fool could see. Harry would be the Lord of Casterly Rock one day - Cerenna hoped to be his lady, his princess, and maybe even his queen, if he should sit the Iron Throne. _'You might yet be his wife, but it is I who will have his heart.'_

"Lady of the Rock," Raylene repeated, "in a sea of golden roses."

"And will I - "

"One question, child," she took a ragged breath, "and one question only."

Myrielle leaned forward and gave Raylene her hand, anxiousness written plain on her face. She barely winced when the knife cut across her palm, staring curiously into the bowl just as intently as the wise woman herself. "Will I be a princess?" she asked.

"Oh yes," Raylene said, "a princess, and maybe even a queen, in a vale of red flowers and sweet lotuses."

Her face lit up, rouged lips spread in a smile. "Did you hear that Cerenna? I'll be a queen with a veil of red flowers and sweet lotuses."

_'Not a veil,' _Aeryn thought. _'A_ _**vale**.'_

"And you child?" Raylene looked to her, her eyes so dark they were bronze. "Sit and let me see your future."

A part of her wanted to know - _burned_ to know, what might become of her, if she would truly claim Harry's heart, but a bigger part, reborn in the fires of tragedy, cared little for Raylene's prophecies. "I'm fine," Aeryn said. _'I will make my own future.' _"But I do have a question, and I won't give my blood for it."

The wise woman gave a slow nod.

"What did you mean, when you said they had been touched by fire?"

"Just that, child. But beware - you stand closest of all. Best seek distance, before you be consumed."

She thought of Harry, of his beautiful face and glowing green eyes, and she smiled. _'Too late.'_

* * *

Harry didn't return that night, or even the next day. It was four days before she saw him again, and he had brought men back with him. Lord Lydden had come to Casterly Rock for Harry's nameday celebration, even though it was a moon's turn away, and he'd brought his daughter, Elaine.

Aeryn wanted to strangle her.

"So you're the girl from the song," Elaine said, twirling her copper hair about her finger. She sounded insulted, though her voice was soft. _'Weak.'_ Her eyes, so brown as to be black, were narrowed in derision. "Prince Harry's whore."

They were in the welcoming hall of Harry's own tower, sewing bonnets and cloaks, and whatever else they could think of. It had been Cerenna's idea; since their visit to Raylene, the girl had taken to including Aeryn in all manner of mundane endeavors, as if they already didn't see enough of each other.

The room was large enough to seat fifty, with smooth stone floors and redwood paneling about the walls. Gilded chandeliers hung from the raised trey ceiling, glittering enamel winding through the stonework like golden vines. They sat on marble benches with velvet cushions, arranged in rows on either side of the carpeted center aisle, beneath the darkening light of the evenfall sun shining through the tall leaded windows running about the walls.

Aeryn hid her annoyance behind a wide smile, and dipped her head. "I am, mi'lady." She had thought she couldn't stand Cerenna, but Elaine Lydden was _much_ worse, condescending in a way that made Cerenna's belittlement almost endearing.

"Aeryn isn't a whore," Myrielle said. She didn't bother with sewing, content to sit idly. "Whores lie with whomever has enough coin. Aeryn doesn't care for coin - she only cares for Harry's co - "

"_Myrielle!" _Cerenna paused her sewing to glare at her sister. "Have you no shame?"

"Oh please." She waved a hand. "We both know what they get up to in that tower of his."

Aeryn almost laughed. They had _no_ idea what she and Harry got up to. _'Nothing more than soft touches and caresses.' _But that would change, in time. That was her hope.

Elaine appeared scandalized, her disdain plain to see. "My mother says all whores have a price," she said, nose turned up in disgust.

_'I'll show you my **price**,'_ Aeryn thought, hand twitching for the dagger hidden in the dagged sleeves of her gown. She hated wearing gowns, preferring the comfort of breeches, but Lady Genna had insisted.

"She's a _mistress," _Myrielle said. "That's what Lady Genna said to call her."

"Are they not one and the same?" asked Elaine.

Cerenna looked down at Elaine. She was heads taller than the brown-eyed girl. "Your father has quite a few bastards, doesn't he? One would think he's had many mistresses."

"Before he married my mother, yes, but she would not bear the shame of living with a whore. He still kept his bastards close though, vile creatures that they are." Her lip curled. "Bastardry is a sin in the eyes of the Seven."

Aeryn's fingers clenched, and she stared down at the needles gripped in her palms. She needn't use her dagger at all. She could just bury the needles in Elaine's eyes, and keep her blood from sullying the blade that Harry had given her.

"Septa Belandra says that too," Myrielle began, "and yet, men still have them. Doesn't seem to be much of a sin, does it? I've heard tale that King Robert has a dozen bastards."

"As long as the woman knows her place," Cerenna said, "what does it matter? For every song about a valiant highborn knight, there's another for an equally valiant baseborn bastard." Though she spoke to Elaine, she was looking to Aeryn.

The meaning wasn't lost on her.

"There'll be no place for bastards in my home," Elaine said. "I'll not be shamed by their presence."

_'No one cares of what will happen in **your** home,' _Aeryn thought. She longed to say the words, but then she remembered what Lady Genna had said about propriety.

_"You might not be a true lady, but you'll have the manners of one. Always remember courtesy dear, especially when it's the furthest thing from your mind. Men have their swords, and we have our courtesy. Best learn to wield it with skill."_

She kept her silence.

"Well," Cerenna said, always gracious, "hopefully you can find a husband who won't shame you in such a way." She smiled, her lips tight.

Aeryn thought that she might be annoyed with Elaine as well. The girl seemed to live in a fantasy world. If a lord meant to keep his bastard or his mistress close, he would.

Elaine perked up. "I've already found my husband," she said, grinning coyly. It was the most irritating expression Aeryn had ever seen. "I'll be married to Prince Harry."

A fantasy indeed.

Myrielle laughed, and Aeryn had a mind to join her. Elaine wasn't strong enough for Harry. None of them were, really.

"You sound quite sure of yourself," Cerenna said, deigning to entertain the auburn-haired girl. She sat her needlework down on the bench and regarded Elaine with a considering gaze.

"I am sure," Elaine repled. "The prince thinks I'm pretty." She blushed, a rosy tint spreading about her cheeks. "He said so himself when he kissed me."

But that changed everything.

"When did he kiss _you_?" Aeryn asked before she could stop herself. Harry had never initiated a kiss with _her_. And he'd never spoken of Elaine Lydden either. Unbidden, something like panic welled in her gut.

"Years ago," said Elaine, her tone nonchalant. "When he visited the Deep Den. We'll be wed, when he's of age, and you," she said, looking to Aeryn, "will go back to wherever you came from. I'll not abide _mistresses_ or whores."

_'Calm down,' _she said to herself, even as her brief panic warmed into anger. _'If Raylene's words be true, then Cerenna will wed Harry. Unless... unless he won't be the Lord of Casterly Rock.'_

Just as well, Raylene could be full of steaming pig shite.

Myrielle laughed again. "Your family is much too poor for you to be wed to Harry. Ser Wenfryd, I think, is a better match."

Elaine frowned, her pretty face marred by the expression. Aeryn delighted in her anger and frustration. _'It isn't pleasant, being belittled, is it?' _Her pleasure was corrupted though, as she thought of the children she had yet to have, black of hair with purple eyes, cast out of their homes by their father's highborn wife.

It was anger that finally took hold of her.

"Ser Wenfryd is only the younger brother of a landed knight," Cerenna said. "She's worthy of a lord's son, at least. One of Lord Frey's brood would be a nice match. A weasel for a weasel. What do you think, Aeryn?" She looked to her left, but the space was empty. "Aeryn?"

But she had already left the room, without so much as a word, rude though it was.

* * *

She raced down the hall, barely sparing a glance to Quinn and Cassius at the base of the stairwell, the clatter of her booted heels echoing against the arched ceilings. She climbed the steep stone steps of the tower in twos, and by the time she reached the top her breath came in short bursts, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. She found Harry sitting in his solar, his nose buried in an old black tome, stacks of books and goblets sitting about the table. Maester Wulfric was with him. Every wall sconce was lit, and the brazier atop the table burned as brightly as she had ever seen it.

And yet, Harry burned brighter still.

"Harry," she said between gasps.

He glanced up at her, and at the sight of his green eyes, she felt her heart flutter.

"Did you run up the steps?" He stood, walked over to her, and wiped the sweat from her brow with the pad of his thumb, his visage a mask of concern. "Has something happened?"

She had to look up into his face; he was as tall as Cerenna now, if not taller, and seemed to be growing more every day. He smelled of hickory. _'He's been with Ham, grilling boar, no doubt.' _"You kissed Elaine Lydden." It sounded like an accusation.

Concern became confusion. "What?"

She paused, and looked to Maester Wulfric. "Might we have a bit of privacy, Maester? I won't be long; I promise."

He didn't seem about to move, but then Harry turned to him, and with nary a word, the Maester left, grumbling all the while. She waited silently for the sound of the heavy black oak door closing.

"What's going on?" Harry asked her. He looked worried, almost, green eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"You _kissed _Elaine Lydden." She didn't understand why that fact bothered her so. "You've never kissed me."

"Is that what she's been telling people?" His eyes sparkled with humor. "Elaine Lydden kissed _me." _He tucked a few strands of loose hair behind her ear. "And I kiss you all the time. Or have you forgotten in the past four days?"

"No you don't," she replied. "_I _kiss you." She fiddled with the strings of her bodice. "Was it your first?"

He nodding, laughing. "It was." Then he looked at her in that way that only he could, his eyes cutting deep into her soul. It was like he was seeing _through _her. "Are you jealous?" He sounded incredulous.

"She seems to think you'll be married," she said, ignoring his question. _'Elaine Lydden stole Harry's first kiss.'_

He scoffed. "I'm sure a lot of girls think they'll marry me."

"You haven't kissed a _lot_ of girls."

His lips curled into a smirk. She felt the urge to taste them, even as she felt the urge to run back down the steps and slap that red-headed _cunt_.

"So you _are_ jealous," he said, laughing again.

She frowned. "And if I am?"

"You shouldn't be." He rested his hands on her shoulders. "I don't lie with Elaine Lydden."

_'No, but...' _"You haven't _lain_ with me either."

He tilted his head, and his black hair shifted. Aeryn thought of the shadows in Raylene's shop. "No... I suppose I haven't."

A smile came to her then. She knew just what to do about Elaine. Her mother had taught her many things, over the course of her life. "We should rectify that problem."

He appeared conflicted. "I don't even know if I _can_ lie with you."

_'What?' _"Of course you can."

"No, I mean... I don't know if I can... _release."_

_"_Your seed, you mean?" She laughed. "There are a couple of ways to find out."

She walked back over to the door, and shifted the latch to bar it shut. "Sit on the table," she said as she returned.

He did as she bid, pushing the books and goblets out of the way. "What - "

She pressed her finger to his lips, silencing him. "Just relax," she said, slipping her hand beneath his breeches.

He grunted as she curled her fist around the length of him, stroking slowly. It was like holding fire in her hands, he was so warm, the flesh throbbing with the beat of her heart. She kept that same rhythm as she stroked, and within seconds, he was as hard and rigid as the wood of the table, his body taut, like the drawn string of her dragonbone bow. With her other hand, she tugged his breeches down to his knees, and ran her fingers through the sparse black curls revealed to her. She never once looked away from his eyes.

"You're going to use your hands?" he asked. His voice was oddly high-pitched.

"No," she said, her lascivious intentions reflected in her smile. "Not my hands."

And then she took him in her mouth.

She had never done it before, though she thought about it often. She knew to be careful of her teeth - she'd seen a girl beaten once, for accidentally bleeding a man - but other than that, she hadn't a clue.

What she lacked in skill, she supplemented with enthusiasm, delighting in his soft moans and low groans, the way his hips twitched when she swirled her tongue around the head. He seemed to like that a lot, so she lavished the rest of him with her tongue, from base to tip and back again, laughing as his hips bucked clean off the table. Her hair shifted, fell across her face, and he brushed it out of her eyes, curling his fingers in the locks about the crown of her head. She trailed her hands up his stomach and down his sides as she swallowed him deeper, raking her nails against his skin, and felt his grip tighten.

This was a power she had never felt before, had never even imagined. When the act was described to her, taking a man in her mouth, she had thought of submission, not of domination, but here and now, Harry was hers to control. He seemed so vulnerable, so open; she saw it in his quivering lips, and his trembling hand as it searching the table, reaching for something to grab, to tether himself down.

He didn't last long, and she was proud for that. With a shudder and a shout borne deep in his soul he spilled his seed, his eyes clamped shut, hand still fisted in her hair. His seed was sweet, but salty and thick, burning gently as it slid down her throat. She made sure not to swallow all of it, and spat the rest in her hand before wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

* * *

Afterwards, as he donned his breeches, his breath as short and heavy as hers had been mere minutes before, she let his seed drip from her hand into an empty cup. She watched him in the firelight, wiping the sweat from his own brow, his eyes still closed, and for some inexplicable reason, she thought of Lord Tywin.

He had threatened to hang her once, if Harry was so much as _seen_ with her - what would he say now? Oh, he _never_ spoke with her, never even looked twice at her the few times their paths had crossed, and she was glad of it. Even Lady Genna didn't like him. _Loved_ him, yes, in the special way that a sister loved her brother, but liked? In Lady Genna's words, Tywin was a "thundering fool" - he just so happened to be the sort of thundering fool that towered above the rest. A mountain of a man. But if he was a mountain, then Harry was something even grander. _'Like all the stars in the heavens.'_

"So now we know," she said, smiling. "You can definitely _release_." She sat the cup on the table and wound her arms about his waist.

"Yes," he said as he looked down at her, voice soft. "Yes I can." His green eyes, once so bright, seemed in that moment as black as twilight.

He kissed her.

She thought that he wouldn't have - she could still taste him in her mouth, no doubt he could taste it too - but he didn't seem to care. When she felt his tongue dance along her bottom lip she near melted on the spot, burning from the inside out and the outside in, from his lips against hers, and his seed, hot in her stomach.

She took her leave sometime later, passing Maester Wulfric standing with Greyhand in the hall. She could feel his watery brown eyes boring into her back as she walked past, saw in her mind's eye his scowl of disapproval. And what did she care? Maester Wulfric's approval meant nothing. Was worth, nothing.

_'As much as a maidenhead... stolen, by Allar Deem.'_

She carried the cup with her, cradling it close. Her mother had told her that there was power in a man's seed, just as there was power in his blood, and with the right ingredients, she could make use of it.

_'By blood and fire, you will **never** be the Lady of Casterly Rock, Elaine Lydden.'_ She would make sure of it.

The slip of parchment sat forgotten, still hidden in the folds of her cloak, tucked away in the wardrobe.

* * *

**_Myrcella_**

On days like this, she realized just how much cheer her brother had brought to the Red Keep; had brought to _her_.

If she said she missed him, she would be lying - missed wasn't a descriptive enough word, wasn't powerful enough. Did you miss your right hand? Your best friend?

Your heart?

Since she could remember, she could always count on Harry to put a smile on her face; to make her feel happy and safe. If ever she were sad, or lonely, or angry, it was to him that she went, seeking the solace of his company, be it in the wildflower gardens, chasing after butterflies in the noonday haze, or running about in the godswood, sword-fighting with weirwood sticks.

Before he had left for Casterly Rock he took her to see the dragon skulls in the underbelly of the keep. She had been frightened of the dark, of the long shadows slithering along the walls, fleeing the light of his torch, but had said nothing of her fear. She hadn't wanted her beloved brother to think her craven.

It was Joffrey's fault she had been so afraid; he had told her that ghosts haunted the keep, that the Mad King himself stalked the halls, hunting maidens in the night.

"You had best be especially careful," he'd said, his cruel mouth twisted in a grin. "The Mad King likes them young."

She had taken the spindly shadows for the ghost's fingers reaching to snatch her away, to drag her to some nightmarish hell. Fear stiffened her limbs, froze her gait, rendering her unable to move. She had tried to call out to Harry, but her voice came out strained, barely even a whisper. As he had drawn further ahead the inky blackness crept closer, and closer still, till it swallowed her whole. She remembered hearing voices calling to her from the dark; a hundred voices, whispering all at once, and _things _scraping against the stone walls, clattering all around her. She had thought them the Mad King's claws, imagined that in death he'd become a dragon, come to rend her limb from limb and devour her heart.

Her scream had been loud enough to wake the dead.

Harry had yelled for her to calm down, to stop screaming, but she'd been too afraid, and shut her eyes against the shadows. She hadn't even realized when he'd returned to her side.

"You needn't be afraid," he'd said. "I'm here." She had grabbed hold of him so tight her arms ached.

When she opened her eyes again, at his behest, the shadows were gone. Fire blazed in every brazier and upon every torch. Balerion's massive skull had gleamed like a great black gem.

He never did tell her how he managed that feat; nor had he ever explained how he had managed to write lines that day with Septa Eglantine, without ever once touching a quill. That was how her brother was, she thought. Mysterious. Calm. Strong. He had always been strong, even when they were small; she'd once taken a spill down the uneven steps leading to the kitchens and hurt her ankle, but Harry had been there, and he carried her all the way to Grandmaester Pycelle's quarters, on the far side of the castle near the Hand's Tower. Afterwards, when the Grandmaester had finished setting her ankle, Harry carried her the entire way back to her apartments in Maegor's Holdfast, even though there had been a wheeled chair for her to ride in.

"How will you manage the steps?" he'd said, laughing.

Letters weren't enough, and it had been years since he'd last visited the capital. Three, though it might have been a dozen, for how long it felt. With such little fun to be had, the days passed at a slow crawl, the weeks even slower. Moons seemed as if years.

No, _missed_ was not the appropriate word at all. This was _longing_.

Worse still, it was time for her lessons. Harry had managed to make those bearable; fun, even, when he would hide Septa Eglantine's books, or snatch her quills.

The woman was probably searching for her now.

"Mother, when will Harry return to King's Landing?" She tried not to sound petulant. Her mother would tell her she was being dramatic, she knew.

They sat together in the Queen's apartments, on the level of the Holdfast beneath her father's. The room was much larger than her own, decorated with Myrish furnishings, cerise rugs with golden tassles, gilded sapphire screens, and furred long chairs stuffed with down. It smelled of sweet perfumes and incense, and she saw sticks of them burning in an urn atop a table against the far wall. There were two garderobes on either side of the room, both overflowing with silks and satin gowns of the finest quality and make, some from as far as Volantis. The bay window on the north side of the chamber opened to a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, lain with red stone benches and tables wrought of iron, bronze and brass.

Her mother barely stirred, content to stretch her legs down the length of the long chair. "Soon, sweetling. Your father sent word for him to return to the capital."

"How soon?"

"In time to celebrate his nameday with family," her mother began, "and if not then, certainly by the time Joff's nameday tourney comes around. You and he can sit together in the stands as you used to, and jape at the oafs on their horses. Or perhaps he'll even compete himself."

She could imagine her brother riding in a tourney, atop a brilliant black mare with golden barding, decked in the finest bejeweled armor. She recalled many a day he'd returned to the keep sweaty and stinking from a day of training with their uncle Jaime. "I hope he competes." But then again, tourneys were so _dangerous_. She'd once seen a man's arm cut clean off, just as easy as carving a sweet cake. Harry _was_ almost a man grown, but the knights seemed so big on their horses, so fierce with their lances angled to strike. _'I'll pray to the Warrior, to give him strength.' _"Do you think father will allow it?"

"He might." Her mother sipped from a nacre shell goblet set with rubies. "And if he performs well, Robert might even have him knighted."

She liked that idea. _'Harry was born to be a knight.' _He would be as valiant as the knights in the songs, she thought, just like Ser Barristan, or even Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight. He would save damsels and champion the weak. _'I'll make a favor for him_.'

A gust of wind swept through the open window just then, sending the curtains aflutter. With it came the putrid smell of the city beyond, an unwelcome guest marring the room's splendor. Even her mother's perfumes couldn't overpower the scent.

The smell reminded her of Joffrey, the rotten toad. It was a shame that Harry's first tourney might be in honor of _Joffrey's _nameday; better that he compete in the tourney for _her_ nameday instead.

She'd run across Joffrey the day before, bullying a pair of lordlings visiting with their father from Crackclaw Point. His hound had stood by all the while, watching idly. She didn't like the hound - his face scared her, as ugly as it was, even more than his monstrous size. It was rare to see a man who was taller than her father.

And she hadn't forgotten what he'd done to that poor boy either. She and Septa Eglantine had said prayers for him, to help guide his soul to the arms of the Father. They had prayed for _all_ her brother's friends, even the girl that no one liked to mention. Myrcella had once asked her mother why the boy had to die, and had been wholly unprepared for her response.

"That wretched little boy attacked Joffrey," she had said. "Tried to spear him, like some boar; tried to kill the man who'll one day be your king. There have been wars for lesser transgressions. Lucky that only the boy died, instead of his entire family."

Her mother could be quite cruel sometimes.

_'If the Hound had been a true knight,'_ she thought,_ 'he would've stopped the boy without killing him.' _A true knight always did the right thing - the honorable thing. Harry would be a true knight, just like her Uncle Jaime, who had slain the Mad King.

"How old was Uncle Jaime when he competed in his first tourney?"

Her mother's expression became thoughtful. "Three-and-ten," she said after a moment, "but he was knighted at five-and-ten." She smiled. "Knighted by the Sword of the Morning himself."

_'The Mad King had such famed knights as Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower in his kingsguard, but my father must contend with men like Boros Blount and Meryn Trant, ugly and craven and cruel.' _She sighed. "I miss him, mother."

"I know how you feel, love."

She shook her head. "No you don't. You and Uncle Jaime have been together for ages." _'Longer than I've been alive.'_ "When were you ever apart?"

Her mother shifted and set her cup upon a bronze round table beside her chair. She looked at Myrcella then, really looked at her, and the girl blushed against the scrutiny.

_'Why must she stare so?'_

"When I was one-and-ten," her mother began, eyes clouded as she began to recollect, "just as old as you are now, Jaime was sent to squire for Lord Crakehall. I was annoyed with him at first, for leaving."

Myrcella had been angry at Harry, but never annoyed - her brother had grand dreams, she knew, and fostering at Casterly Rock was a way for him to realize those dreams. He wouldn't be content standing at Joffrey's back while he played at being king.

"My father brought me to court with him a year later," her mother continued, "while he served as Hand."

"For the Mad King," Myrcella said. She wondered if her mother had been afraid of the crazed Aerys II, and looked at her now, lazing about in a long chair, languid as a lioness lounging in tall grass. She was strong, her mother. Fierce, even as she lay there, sipping wine. _'No, I don't think she was afraid of the Mad King at all.'_

"Yes," her mother said, "for the Mad King." Something flashed across her eyes. "I missed him terribly," she started again. "We were born together, Jaime and I. There's no bond quite so strong as the bond between twins."

Myrcella looked down at the floral patterns of her velvet gown, and smoothed the wrinkles from her lap. _'Then Harry and I are twins.'_ "When were you and Uncle Jaime reunited?" she asked, looking up into her mother's face.

"For a brief time, years later, after he was knighted. He came to King's Landing after riding against bandits in the Kingswood - "

"He fought against the Kingswood Brotherhood," Myrcella interjected. "Uncle Jaime saved a lord, and fought the Smiling Knight with the Sword of the Morning." Harry had told her the story.

Her mother nodded. "You know the story well."

"So what happened when he came to court?"

"Nothing. He was gone just as quickly as he'd come. But he caught the king's eye, in that brief time, and a month later he was raised to the Kingsguard. I thought we would remain close, but my father resigned as hand shortly thereafter." Her smile was forlorn. "We had only managed to switch places; he, at court with the king, and me, at Casterly Rock with our father. A few years later, Robert rose in rebellion, and Jaime slew the Mad King on his throne. We only came to be together again when I wed your father and became queen."

"It took a war to bring you back together." _'It__ could almost be a song,'_ she thought.

Her mother gazed at her with shrewd eyes. "You love your brother very much, don't you sweetling?"

"Very much," she agreed. _'More than anything.'_ "I wish he was here."

"You were always close." Her mother looked down at her hands. "The Targaryens wed brother and sister," she said, "for hundreds of years."

Myrcella nodded, and found her hands again pulling against the wrinkles of her gown. "They practiced incest. Septa Eglantine says that incest is unforgivable. She says its a sin against the Seven."

Her mother gave a tight smile. "So it is." She peered into her cup, frowning at what she saw inside.

"Is something wrong, mother?"

"... No, love. Nothing is wrong." She looked back up. "You've lessons to attend, do you not? The septa is probably looking for you now."

"But mother - "

"Go, sweetling. You'll want to impress Harry with what you've learned when he returns, won't you?"

Myrcella departed her mothers company, but she didn't seek out Septa Eglantine. Instead, she delved into the heart of the Red Keep, to an apartment on the bottom level. The stone wall beside the single hearth slid open to reveal a narrow passage. It was dark inside - pitch black, almost, but she wasn't afraid of the dark anymore. If ever she felt scared, she only need think of Harry.

She trekked through the hidden passages, crawling when the ceiling drooped too low, shuffling sideways when the walls grew to close. She imagined how nefariously the passages had been used over the years, back when Targaryens still sat the Iron Throne, and fantasies began to take root in her mind. She thought of Mad Aerys and his poor wife, and Baelor the Blessed, who'd locked his own sisters away for fear of laying with them. She thought of Aegon the Unworthy, and his many bastards and mistresses, and the shame he brought to the realm. She thought of Naerys and Aemon.

What would these walls say, could they yet speak?

But then she heard voices where before there had only been silence, and she quieted her breath. She didn't want to be heard, lest she be discovered. Further ahead were peepholes drilled into the stone; she walked to them, mindful to stay silent, and stooped to peer out into the hall.

She saw two men walking past. She couldn't see their faces, but one was short and slender, his black hair flecked with gray, wearing a cloak woven from the finest of cloths; the other was tall and thin, with hair like straw. His garments weren't nearly as fine.

"... gold, my friend," the small one said. "You bring me those, and I'll see you made a lord."

"And how am I to manage that?"

"How do you think? You take them."

"You've your own girls," the tall one said. "And gold as well." He rolled a dragon around in his palm.

"And I want more. You do as well; elsewise you wouldn't be standing before me now. Are you afraid of the roosters and peacocks?" He scoffed. "Or is it the unicorns and burning trees?"

"No, it's the lions I fear. Roosters and peacocks and unicorns and trees don't have claws and fangs."

"Best be quick then, lest you run afoul of the pride."

How very odd. Roosters and unicorns? Was the man some sort of animal handler? Mayhaps the menagerie from Pentos would return to King's Landing soon; her Uncle Jaime had told her of the show once, of the mummers and their dances, leading creatures through burning hoops. But how could an animal handler be made a lord?

_'How very odd indeed.'_

* * *

**_Cersei_**

_'What a disgusting man.'_

The High Septon was as fat as a cow, his stomach swollen and bloated, his sagging teats perched atop the fleshy mound like a pair of pregnant rock doves on a boulder. He stank of must and sweat, and his sweet oils - applied what seemed like every tenth second - did little to mask the rank odor. She would rather not meet with him, but this was an exceedingly delicate matter; one she could not trust to anyone save herself.

"Did you enjoy the flowers, your Holiness?" Poor girls. She could almost pity them.

"Yes, yes indeed. They had just the right... ripeness." He chortled, and grabbed a sweetcake with his meaty hand, swallowing it in two bites. Crumbs tumbled down his stained satin robes.

She pulled her lips across her teeth. The expression appeared to pass as a smile, for the High Septon chortled again, and called for more roasted boar. Young boys clothed in thin white robes came to collect the empty trays of food lain out on the smooth stone table, replacing them with more dishes; the requested boar, strips of chicken breasts dressed with herbs and soaked in butter, pickled eggs, and an assortment of pies. She didn't care to sit with the corrupt fool any longer. Even this small time seemed too long, and her chair, padded though it was, grew more uncomfortable by the second.

And it was a shame, that, because the Great Sept was such a beautiful place, with its white marble floors and curved, vaulted ceilings polished to shine like crystals. The curtains over the arched lead windows were wrought of the finest velvet, swaths of rainbow cloth stitched with silver thread. Candles burned atop weirwood tables interspersed throughout the room, and busts of the Seven stood on pedestals arranged before each of the seven windows.

"I'm glad," she said. "My son has returned to the capital. Will you make his anointment a public event, or would you rather contain it to these," she glanced around, "beautiful chambers?" If given blessing by the Faith, people could look upon Harry's abilities as miracles, and him as the mortal hand of the Seven. The smallfolk would flock to him as they had flocked to Baelor the Blessed, but where the soft-hearted Targaryen king had been weak and craven, Harry would be as Daeron I had been, strong and confident, as brave as the fiercest knight.

He would be the Young Dragon, and she, his rider, claiming his strength as her own.

The smile slid from his face. "I'm not so certain an anointment is the proper course of action," he said as he began to cut into the boar. "And what you ask... it is unprecedented. To grant a man the power of a Septon, without taking the vows, or adhering to the code... I cannot, in good conscience, allow such a thing."

She narrowed her eyes. "Good conscience?" She scoffed, and almost spat at the man. "Was it your good conscience that led you to bugger little girls? I wonder what the realm would think of that."

He had the audacity to look shocked, and that made her angrier. "You enjoy a good grilled hen, don't you?" Her voice was sweet, belying the threat of her words. "Could be that one day you choke on a bone." His fat face whitened. "Or maybe you slip in a spot of sweet oil and tumble out the window in the high chambers. Perhaps - "

"I understand," he said, voice faint. "But _you _must understand, what you ask is not in my power. The Most Devout must agree as well."

She wanted to grab the carving knife and shove it through his beady little eyes. He was wasting her time; he had known all along the Most Devout would need to agree to Harry's anointment. He might have been a corrupt fraud, and she knew of others on the council that were just as rotten, but all eight of them?

A few of the Septons might decide in her favor, if she made arrangements to indulge their vices. Some were truly devout, above bribery and intimidation; they would have to _believe _that Harry's power was divine in nature. She knew Septon Torbert, the plump, pious oaf that he was, would agree to whatever she put forth. Septon Reynard too.

The Septas would be harder to deal with. She imagined herself as a leathery old crone, with a cunt as dry as the deserts of Dorne.

They would be _much_ harder to deal with.

"How many must agree?" she asked.

"Five," he said. "Five and myself. A unanimous vote would be better. Your proposal might be contested at a later date, if one of the Most Devout should raise issue."

"They won't raise issue." She could persuade five of the Most Devout to decide in favor of Harry's anointment; the three that didn't, if it be that many, would die.

And the realms would praise her Harry as a child of the gods, blessed by their holy power.

* * *

The sun burned bright in the clear sky, beating against the earth like a hammer to an anvil. She cursed the heat, and as if in answer, a faint ocean breeze swept across the tourney grounds on cool, gossamer wings. But the wind was little more than a brief reprieve from the near stifling warmth of the summer sun, and if not for the covering above the stands, and the servants waving their feathered fans, Cersei would have remained in the Red Keep. She could have been relaxing in a cool bath with a flute of Arbor Gold; instead, she had to suffer the stink of sweaty men and horses, on a day much too hot to sit outside, let alone strut about in full plate.

The horizon was awash with half-a-hundred hues; whites and greens and reds and yellows, the standards of near four dozen lords and landed knights standing tall against the blue expanse. The murmur of the crowd across the field reminded her of the frothing waters of the Blackwater to the south, and the vermin toiling in its muddy banks. She glanced at Robert, sitting to her right, sweating like a pig. _'The vermin and their king.' _

The finalists of the joust stood below her, arrayed in a row before their king and queen. Her beloved Jaime, grand and gallant in his brilliant golden armor, was to face Ser Loras.

'Knight of the Flowers,' he called himself. She had laughed when she first heard the moniker, and wondered what sort of man would call himself such. It was unseemly; flowers were pretty things, fit for women and girls, not knights. But young Ser Loras _was _pretty, as pretty as a woman, and lithe too, with a penchant for playing the crowd; she could scarcely count all the simpering girls he'd gifted with a white flower. Tokens, he'd said, of his victory.

_'What a fool. He should be praying Jaime doesn't knock him flat.'_

Ser Barristan, in his white Kingsguard armor, the plate polished to a mirror shine, was to face the Knight of the Owl. The mystery knight was of House Mertyns, from the Stormlands - she knew from the owl emblazoned upon his shield, but he kept his face hidden beneath a winged helm, and had given no name upon entering the lists. He too was lithe, like Loras, but taller, with straight, broad shoulders.

Today, Joffrey had the seat of honor; Robert sat next to him, his fat fingers curled around a drinking horn as he japed with old Lord Walder, about whores and children and whores again, the drink flowing between them like a river of ale. It seemed enough to drown the weasel, but as a man of great age, Lord Walder had learned to handle his drink. Jon Arryn looked on, his expression unreadable, wizened face as still as stone, a goblet of iced milk clutched in his hand. The immense Lord Yohn sat at his side, just as stoic as his liege lord, still in his bronze armor. He seemed unaffected by the heat; he had probably fought many tourneys in such conditions, as old as he was. He had claimed the melee of the day before, but had been unhorsed by the Knight of the Owl in the opening rounds of the joust, after breaking two lances against his shield. Renly and Baelish sat amongst them as well, and Tyrion too, the wretched little monster, along with a number of other lords and ladies, all petty little leeches hanging about to curry what favor they could.

They could all die and she would not shed a tear; every single one of them put to the sword, or boiled, or bludgeoned, or drowned - she did not care. So long as they were dead. Dead, before they could do the same to her.

She felt Jaime's eyes on her then, felt the weight of his gaze as it slid from her face, down the smooth curve of her neck, to rest at the swell of her breasts. His smile was as sharp as the sword at his waist, his gaze so lewd he might as well have taken her then and there. _'Idiot,' _she thought, frowning. Now was not the time for such brazen displays, not when death was but a whisper away. Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis had been making inquiries, her spies had told her, asking after Robert's bastards, and their mothers.

She could only think of one reason why they would be interested in such information.

They _knew. _Or they suspected, at least, and if Robert should ever discover the truth, he would have her killed. _'Joffrey too,' _she thought, as she looked upon her golden prince, _'and mayhaps Myrcella as well.'_

But not Harry. Any man could see that Harry was Robert's trueborn son; if not by the jet of his hair, then by the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer strength of him, young as he was. Her bold boy would not stand idly by, she thought, as Robert lay waste to his family. He had defended her with his power once before; would he do it again, if it came to that?

She remembered Robert flying weightlessly across his chambers, and the wicked snap of his head as it crashed into the wall.

_'Yes,' _she thought. _'Yes he would.'_

He would defend her, just as he had that day. Her sweet, sweet boy. He _loved_ her.

But she wasn't of a mind to wait and see. It was best to cut first, and cut _deep_. Lord Arryn would have to die. Stannis as well. And if it be a painful end, all the better; she had never liked either of them. The realm would mourn Lord Arryn's passing - he had been a good Hand to his king, but none would care for Stannis's death. Some might even rejoice.

She searched the stands for him, and though she spotted his Onion Knight two rows below, she did not see the Lord of Dragonstone. Nor did she see Harry. That was... strange. She had thought that Robert would keep him close, after hearing of his exploits in the west.

"Myrcella, darling?" She looked to her daughter sitting to the left of her, her mauve gown a mirror of her own, even down to the gold thread winding through the lace. "Where is Harry?"

"With Uncle Stannis, last I saw him."

She felt a shock of alarm race through her. "Where were they?"

"Near the stables," Myrcella said.

Cersei dispatched two of her guards to retrieve them. She didn't like the thought of Stannis with Harry, filling his mind with lies - _truths - _poisoning him against her. Against Joffrey.

_'But that relationship has already withered and died.'_ Just as Robert's children had, before they could quicken in her womb. All save one.

Harry would never bend the knee to Joffrey. And Joffrey _would_ force the issue. He obsessed over besting his brother, over proving himself more competent; he would come and rant to her sometimes, flushed from summerwine, bruised from sparring in the yard. He came more often now that Harry was back in the capital.

If he knew what Harry was capable of he would be devastated, and should Robert die before she could bring Harry to heel, Joffrey would call on his brother to pay fealty, and Harry...

Harry would rebel. Just as his father had.

Nothing pained her more than to peer into Harry's face and see Robert looking back at her. Not the fat Robert, putrid and disgusting, with wine in his belly and on his breath, the scent of some whore's cunt still clinging to his beard; when she saw her black haired boy, she thought of Robert as she had first seen him, when she thought him a true king; a true conqueror. Harry was more handsome than Robert had been, his features tempered by the beauty he had inherited from her, but his fury was the same; hot and powerful, like the searing sun above.

Joffrey should have had his strength. He was willful, her golden boy, and bold, and beautiful, and _fierce_... but he lacked something intangible that Harry wielded with the skill and grace of a heron dancing in water. She had hated him for it, once upon a time; hated him for being _more_ than her firstborn, hated him as she hated his father. _'If his eyes had been blue,' _she thought, _'I might have smothered him in his crib.'_

And now she aspired to make him even more; an avatar of the Seven, blessed with holy powers. No, Harry would not kneel to Joffrey, and if she should have to choose between the two -

A blaring trumpet snapped her reverie as easily as a plated fist through glass, scattering the shards of her thoughts.

"Are you alright, mother?"

She looked down at Myrcella and saw concern on her daughter's face. "I'm fine, love." _'If Harry will not kneel to Joffrey, he will kneel to me.' _He would have to, or else the realm would bleed.

The herald announced the start of the match. Ser Barristan was to ride against the Knight of the Owl. Below her, the two knights clasped forearms with gloved hands, and walked to their respective ends of the ring.

She heard Baelish asking after bets, and Lord Walder, the horrid old lout, put fifty gold dragons on the knight of House Mertyns. "Heh, tis' a strong man sitting atop that horse. Would that I could borrow his seed to take root in my wife; if his sons be half as strong, I'd even legitimize the bastards. And take a new wife, heh. Younger than the one I have now, even."

"Any younger, my lord, and you'll need a wetnurse," Baelish japed.

Lord Frey wasn't in the slightest offended. In fact, he perked up at the thought. "Sounds like fun, heh."

Robert laughed, his voice a thunderous boom. He was always too loud. "You're a lecherous old fool, Lord Frey. Ser Barristan may be old, but he's a damn fine jouster."

"And what say you, Lord Royce?" Baelish asked the armor clad lord. "You rode against the mystery knight."

"He's no stronger than any other man," Lord Yohn said. "It's his ease on horseback that makes him so formidable. He rides as well as if he'd been born atop the damn thing."

In the end it was Walder Frey who laughed last, for in the seventh tilt, Ser Barristan fell.  
_  
_


End file.
